


Seek and You Shall Find

by Melicious_Intent



Category: Cassarric - Fandom, Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Tethraghast - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol and Drinking to Cope, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Romance, Cameos, Character Death, F/M, Forgiveness, Further Information Withheld For Spoilers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Humour, Implied Execution, Love Triangles, M/M, Mental Anguish, Minor Anders/Male Hawke, Minor Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Minor Lavellan/Solas, Past Character Death, Plot Twists, implied Sera/Dagna
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2018-08-23 18:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 33
Words: 334,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8338348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melicious_Intent/pseuds/Melicious_Intent
Summary: Varric has perhaps bitten off more than he can chew with the Seeker. After losing Hawke at Adamant Fortress, he decides to spin a new tale for Cassandra in the hopes of making an unlikely friend. But can his latest story develop into something more between them, or will his past come back to bite him in the ass?A winding tale of "will they/won't they" spanning across the latter half of events in DA:I. Some non-canon twists occur to keep anyone from getting too comfortable/bored with the general plot line of the game.





	1. Ink on Parchment

"Oh, Curly? He and I go _way_ back. I first met him in Kirkwall, where he used to serve under Knight-Commander Meredith. You know, Hawke's sister, Bethany, had a little bit of a, uh..."

"Ooh, but wasn't she a mage? Forbidden love, then. _That's_ interesting...!"

Cassandra Pentaghast glanced up from her yawn-inducing report just in time to see the crimson flush spread upward from beneath Commander Cullen's fur pauldrons. Despite the folk music and lively conversation going on about them in Herald's Rest Tavern as they wrote their records of the day's events, the two warriors could just about make out the sordid exchange above them. Frozen in a state of mortification and curiosity, the man sat across from her in breathless silence, straining with burning ears to hear more whilst simultaneously feigning disinterest.

" _He_ said _that?!"_ Blackwall's booming voice roared with hilarity.

"I swear on my brother's brass balls, Hero."

Arching a dark brow, Cassandra twirled her grey quill between her thumb and forefinger. "What _did_ you say, Cullen?"

"W-what?" The Commander stammered, suddenly realising that she, too, was eavesdropping on the table on the first floor. "Oh, that - them? Nothing. Varric is just... spinning tales, again. You know how he is. Apparently I was there, but even _I_ don't know what's going to happen next, the way he tells it," he replied, his scarred lip turning up in a nervous smirk.

"Ah," Cassandra nodded, looking down at her half-finished report and editing an un-dotted "i" three sentences back. "I'm familiar with his little 'embellishments'. Let us pay him no attention, then," she mercifully relented. "That's all he truly seeks, anyway."

"Of course. Let them have their fun," Cullen sighed, rubbing at his tired face again as the light through the windows began to fade to dusk. "It's not as if any of it ever happened, anyway. Drunken nonsense, that's all." He huffed out a small laugh as he absently dipped his quill in their shared inkwell located in the middle of the table.

" _'Young ladies'?!"_ Sera howled with laughter.

Cullen's hand jerked forward, instantly knocking the inkwell clean over, the black liquid splattering and pooling over Cassandra's lengthy report.

" _Shit_ ," she hissed, her brown eyes widened in surprise and aggravation.

"Maker's Breath," he blurted, standing upright and pulling a handkerchief from beneath his cloak, dabbing the paperwork quickly. "It's fine - I'll fix it. Don't panic." Cassandra couldn't quite tell if he was attempting to reassure her or himself, in this instance.

She held up her wet parchment to the light of the hearth in dismay, the surface painted completely jet black. Sighing frustratedly, she buried her head in a hand, still watching with one eye as the ink ran down and dripped from the bottom of the paper onto the wood table. "It's all right, Commander," she muttered, "I think I can still make out a word or two at the beginning..."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Cassandra," he winced out an apology, tucking the soaked handkerchief back under his appropriately red cloak. "Let me make it up to you. Can I buy you an ale, or...?"

She looked up, leaning on an elbow as she dropped the ruined report in front of her. Shrugging, she sighed, "Perhaps you can fill me in about the 'young ladies' Sera just mentioned, at least?"

Cullen stared at her for a long pause, stark indecision painted over his face as obviously as that of any puffy, cream-filled noble in Halamshiral. After a minute of exchanging tense glances, Cassandra's brow furrowed in exasperation, and with a look, she relented.

"I should go," Cullen breathed, gathering his stacks of files and reports.

"Goodnight, Commander," she shrugged sleepily. "I'm sure we'll do this again, soon."

"Uh, yes," he nodded in confusion. "It was nice - Though next time, perhaps somewhere a bit quieter would be preferable... Like a dragon's den."

Smirking, Cassandra waved a hand as he bowed his head slightly in apology, making a swift exit and nearly colliding with a male patron as he made for the door. Turning the handle, the Commander stumbled out, and she watched as Scout Harding hurried over from her place beside the door, taking a portion of the paperwork from his arms before the wooden door blew shut after him.

Her work for the night all but reversed, she pushed out from the table and stalked up to Cabot, whom stood behind the bar going over the steel mugs with a cloth. "Bitter," she ordered her drink with a turn of her lip.

"So I noticed, but what can I get ya?" He winked. Pleased with his jest, he placed the steel in his hands under the spigot and pulled the handle down, filling the mug to the brim. Nodding in thanks, she scooped it up handily and turned around, her eyes on her drink as she made her way back to the table across the floor.

"Well, this one's certainly not as _dry_ , so to speak, but it's about as unreadable as everything else you've ever written, Seeker."

Cassandra looked up with a start to find Varric Tethras holding her ruined parchment before his nose as though reading a missive. "How did you - "

"Jumped the banister."

"But... I didn't hear you - "

"What can I say? I'm light on my feet."

Glaring icily, she took up her seat again, pressing her back against the wall and turning strategically toward Maryden and her lute to avoid the dwarf's mischievous smirk. "It's your fault my document is rubbish, _Varric_ ," she spat in frustration, placing her mug on the table. "If you hadn't been up there telling tall tales about Cullen in Kirkwall, he wouldn't have accidentally bumped the inkwell all over the place."

"Oh, they weren't 'tall tales'," he shook his head, glancing curiously at Cassandra's drink. "What's that you got, there?"

Cassandra snatched up her mug before Varric's outstretched hand could reach it to sample its contents. "Hands off," she bit curtly.

"Fair enough," he nodded, picking up the black parchment with a gloved hand again. "You say he screwed up your papers over something I said?" He clicked his tongue, his other hand rubbing his evening stubble in pensive thought.

"Did I stutter?" She arched a brow of disapproval in his direction, drinking deeply from the foamy, amber-coloured liquid.

"No, you didn't. But I bet Curly did," he sighed, sitting up straight. "All right, Seeker, it seems I owe you one. Tell me what happened out in the field today, and I'll write it up for you."

She choked and spat her ale, coating the table in a sticky mist, and wiped at her mouth as she hurriedly swallowed and coughed. "Maker-" Cassandra rasped hoarsely, coughing again. "Varr-"

"Okay, first, _breathe,"_ Varric cut her off, his hands raised so as to indicate to onlookers that he had nothing to do with the warrior's sudden fit. "Second, what kind of reaction was that? I offer to do you a favour, and you nearly _choke to death?"_

"Varric," she leaned in over the table, glaring hard, "if I left my reports in your hands, you would make them - "

"Bearable?"

 _"Outlandish,"_ she criticised, denying his offer with the shake of her head. "The first thing you _ever_ said to me about the Champion concerned a dragon transforming into an old woman, who placed her essence inside a necklace that Hawke later gave to an elven blood mage - And then the old woman sprung out of the necklace and transformed _again_ into a dragon!"

"What! That _happened!_ I can't help it if the truth sounds insane. It is what it is," he waved a hand in dismissal of her point. "I'll try not to add any spice to it; I can make it as bland as possible, if you'd rather, so it matches the rest of your stale writing."

"I'd _rather_ go to bed," she rolled her eyes, knocking back the last of the bitter beer and wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Sorry, Seeker," Varric shrugged, brushing his chest hair absently as his eyes focused on the hearth fire, "you're not really my type."

Cassandra made a disgusted noise deep in her throat and tossed a coin on the table for the bus boy. "I wasn't offering. Sleep well next to 'Bianca'." And with that, she crossed the back of the room and made her way out the door, presumably to call it a night.

Varric sat in relative silence as he readjusted himself to prop his boots upon the table, lacing his gloved fingers together as he leaned his head back against the wall of the tavern. She was a migraine incarnate, that woman. Rubbing at his temple and scratching his chest, he sniffed and sighed, listening to Maryden sing her soft tune:

" _Once we were in our peace with our lives assured, Once we were not afraid of the dark... Once we sat in our kingdom with hope and pride, Once we ran through the fields with great stride..._ "

"I couldn't help but overhear, Master Tethras," a new, sad voice to Varric's right interrupted quietly.

Turning, Varric caught sight of the elf in his peripheral vision, hunched over a steaming cup, his elbows propped upon the table next to Varric's own. "Overhearing seems to be everyone's favourite pastime, Chuckles," he greeted him with a two-fingered salute. "Care if I join you? This table's pretty much firewood, at this point."

"Please do," Solas waved with an outstretched hand at the chair across from him.

Varric stood up and grabbed his chair, hauling it with him as he approached, and spun the seat with one deft hand, placing the back against the table as he plunked down on it backwards, resting his arms on the top rail. "How're you holding up?" He asked sympathetically, his voice slightly more hoarse than usual.

"I'm... Well," he lowered his head, raising the cup to his full lips and sipping gently. "I will come to terms with it, eventually."

"I still don't really understand all that Fade shit," Varric shrugged with a wince, "but if you want to talk about your Wisdom friend, I could pretend to - "

"Would you care to speak of Hawke, presently?"

Varric straightened, his brow knitting in remorse. "No," he barely breathed, frowning as he stiffly fought the sting of fresh tears. "Not really... Point taken." He cleared his throat gruffly, wishing he had brought an ale with him before he sat down. "You, uhm... said you were listening?"

"Yes," Solas nodded once, setting his cup on the table. "I gather Seeker Cassandra's report was damaged, and you feel it is your obligation to repay her?"

"Yeah, you got any bright ideas? Because she wasn't too thrilled with my suggestion."

"First, I must ask why you care so much about her paperwork?"

Varric scratched at his ginger hair, nonplussed. "Chuckles, are you _drinking?"_

Solas looked down at his half-empty cup. "It is only a sedative designed to relax and aid meditation. The question is still valid."

Varric thought for a moment and sighed, leaning forward and resting an elbow on the table. "You know, things between her and I were getting... I don't know - _tolerable_ , I guess. She'd ask me about Bianca, I'd ask her about Regalyan, but after Adamant... and Hawke - "

His words cut off in his throat again, and in annoyance, he rose and left the table, making his way across the bar to Cabot, where he ordered a pitcher of dark ale, hauling it and a steel mug back to his chair at Solas' table.

" _Ir abelas,_ Varric," Solas offered his condolences. "I apologise for bringing your grief to the surface. I didn't realise it was so closely entangled with your desire for keeping peace with Cassandra." He paused as Varric poured out a mug-full and drank its contents greedily. "If I could propose a solution..."

"Sure, why not?" Varric shrugged, "I've literally got nothing left to lose."

"I sympathise more than you know," Solas nodded. "The Inquisitor told me recently Cassandra is fond of a certain book you wrote which you're not particularly proud of."

"Ah, Inquisitor Lavellan told you about _'Swords and Shields',_ did she? Did you have a chance to read it, yourself? Go on, be honest, now."

"I've not found the opportunity, as of yet. Besides, romance isn't really my cup of tea," Solas admitted.

"From what the Inquisitor told me, _tea_ isn't really your cup of tea."

Solas snorted despite his glum mood. "I must concede your point," he smirked. "Will you be publishing the recent chapter you wrote for Cassandra?"

"Hell no," Varric laughed, topping off his mug, "that crap belongs at the bottom of a barrel in Dust Town, never to see the light of day."

"Then, presumably, since it is purely for Cassandra's consumption, you could write whatever you wanted within its pages."

Varric eyed the bald elf suspiciously for a moment before the gears in his mind began to turn with ideas. "You know what," he muttered, "you might actually have something, there." He bit his lower lip, deep in thought. "I could really screw with her head, come to think of it."

"There's _that_ ," Solas shrugged, lacing his fingers together near his face, "but I was thinking more along the lines of making the woman _happy_ , considering you were searching for a way to make up for Cullen's fumble, earlier."

"Oh - right. That. Hey, thanks, Chuckles. I think I owe _you_ one, now." Varric stretched, cracking his back in a few places before picking up his drink and clinking his mug against Solas' cup in a silent toast.

Solas leaned back, a contented look upon his face as he finished the last of his strange concoction. "You can repay me by recounting that interesting tale the Seeker referred to, earlier. Something about a dragon becoming an old woman? It sounds quite fascinating..."


	2. Search and Seizure, and the Right to Privacy

He could feel the fire at his back waning in its intensity, the flames dimming enough to make the parchment before his nose too difficult to read. Squinting, Varric yawned at his table by the foyer and turned in his chair stiffly to throw another log on the fire. What was that, the fifth one, tonight? Glancing up toward Madame de Fer's balcony room, he noticed for the first time the dawning light crawling steadily across the stonework.

"Ah, shit," he swore, shaking his head and turning back to the rough draft on the table. "Never thought I'd be up so late writing something this tawdry." He ran his finger under his nose roughly to satisfy an itch, and reread the previous two paragraphs, narrowing his eyes critically in search of grammatical errors. Blinking slowly, Varric discovered that he was hard-pressed to lift his heavy lids, and his brows shot up on his face in an effort to pull them open, with little to no success...

"Varric?"

The dwarf lifted his head from the table with a sleepy gasp, unable to recall when he'd lowered it to the surface to begin with. "Oh, wow, what happened?" He rubbed his numb face roughly, stretching his arms as he opened his sore eyes to the bright sunlight. "What time is it?" He rasped, clearing his throat quietly.

"I don't know. Before noon, still," Cole replied, slowly turning his head toward the large doors. "The Iron Bull left the tavern to spar with Krem. You always have lunch just before they go, but you didn't today, so I came to see if you were okay."

"I'm fine, Kid, thanks," he sighed, parting his lips to breathe cool air through his dry mouth. "I don't even remember falling asleep."

"Nobody ever remembers falling asleep," the spirit boy commented distantly, watching the swishing petticoats of the noblewomen as they passed. "Dwarves, less so. They sleep and wake, and sleep again, never knowing dreams, not noticing the slow passage from night to day. Underground, surrounded by seas of stone, it's even more strange."

It was way too early for this. "That's not exactly what I meant, but... sure, Kid," he mumbled, rising from his chair and gathering his papers. "Well, I'm going to head over, maybe see if the kitchens are still serving breakfast. You going back to the tavern?"

Cole shook his head. "Not now... I have to talk to Solas. Later - probably," he said just above a whisper, wandering through the doorway to the right and disappearing without so much as a goodbye.

Varric shimmied around the table, walking through the foyer and stepping out into the late morning light. "Should've made that Kid more human," he grumbled, taking the stone steps quickly.

"Ah, Varric," Lavellan smiled, arriving at the stone landing midway between flights and pausing in her ascent. "Glad I caught you. Did you sleep well?"

"Who knows," he shrugged with a wry grin. "I pulled an all-nighter, but I think it was worth it. Writer's curse. I'll have to read and edit whatever this mess is, later. So, what can I do for you today, Your Inquisitorialness?"

"You can get some food in your stomach and oil Bianca," she informed him. "We're heading out to western Orlais today. Bring the biggest canteen you can find."

"We're not _done_ there, yet?! I can barely _breathe_ in that barren wasteland without breaking into a sweat!"

"I know," she sighed reluctantly, "I'm not looking forward to it, either, but these shards we've been finding open some enchanted chamber in a place called the Forbidden Oasis."

"Ooh, sexy name," he nodded his approval. "Or dangerous - but danger's usually sexy, to be fair."

The Inquisitor looked away, suppressing a grin with some difficulty. "It'd be a shame to collect them and not see what's behind that old door, wouldn't it?"

"You know, that's the kind of talk that gets people killed," Varric chuckled to himself. "Then again, nothing exciting ever happens if you're not at least a _little_ curious."

"True," she smiled affectionately. "So, can I count on you to be at my back?"

The side of his mouth turned up softly. "Inquisitor, Bianca and I wouldn't miss it for the world. For _now,_ though, I'm headed off in search of a sausage roll. Wanna tag along?"

Shaking her head, Lavellan pointed shyly toward the rotunda. "Actually, since he came back yesterday and I haven't seen him since, I should - "

"Speak to Solas," Varric finished for her, nodding in understanding. "Popular guy, this morning. He won't know what to do with all this attention; it's practically wasted on him."

Lavellan tucked her fair hair behind her pointed ear and glanced at her boots to avert her gaze. "Hey," she started in hushed tones, "Varric... I know it's not a good time, right now, but I want to talk to you about... what happened..."

He scrunched up his chin, pressing his lips together firmly in a frown. "Don't, Inquisitor," he whispered, closing his eyes as his brow furrowed. "I'll be fine, don't worry about - " His husky voice tore in half in his throat, and he rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly. "Ahh, you know what," he croaked, "I'll, uh... I'll just meet you guys by the main gate in an hour."

And with a polite nod, he stepped around the elven woman and descended the last flight to the courtyard, having somewhat lost his appetite.

**~oOo~**

_"Gentlemen, meet Bianca! Bianca, say hello, baby, don't be shy,"_ Varric howled from his perch atop a red rock, raining down large, deadly bolts on the Venatori below him on the sweltering sands.

He shielded his eyes in time to see a ball of intense fire careening toward him, and vaulted backwards in a neat flip, landing with an unsteady foot in the sand. Yanking his sunken boot free of the ground, he raced to the edge of the rock and leaned against its face, pushing the stock against his broad abdomen and winding the crank to the nut with the simple press of a button.

"Ooh, I love it when you respond to my touch like that," he grinned mischievously, reloading the bolt feed. He looked up at the sun, counted backwards from three, held his breath, and jumped out from his cover, moving quickly around the group of Tevinter mages as he pulled the trigger, careful not to graze Cassandra as she shouted and slashed violently with her longsword.

As they fell one by one to the assault, Varric turned to the last one standing, aiming his crossbow with deadly precision -

And immediately lowered his weapon.

"Put your hands down, Sparkler," Varric panted, hoisting Bianca back into the holster strapped to his back. "I wasn't going to shoot you."

"Are you sure about that, Varric? Haven't confused me for the enemy, quite yet? Not gone blind or suffered a temporary _madness_ from all this lovely sunshine?" Dorian waggled his fingers in the air teasingly.

"Just because _you're_ accustomed to frying under the sun like back bacon doesn't mean I am," he wiped his brow with his crimson sleeve. Varric knew he was going to suffer a giant V-shaped sunburn on his chest before they could set up camp. He could feel it searing his flesh, already.

"If you think _this_ is hot," he smirked, curling the end of his black moustache delicately, "then you've never been to Minrathous during the Festival of Glistening Olives."

"That's not a thing," Cassandra denied outright, coming into the fold as she sheathed her sword. "I refuse to believe such a festival exists."

Dorian crossed his arms over his chest, his dark brows raised questioningly. "Well, that tidbit you asked about our _templars_ was true," he shrugged light-heartedly. "Oh, you'd love it, Cass! A well-oiled Vint, his skin gleaming in the - "

"Dor, look what I found on those guys," Inquisitor Lavellan exclaimed, panting heavily as she joined them. She held a staff toward the small group, sweat pouring from her brow and matting her tangled blonde hair ridiculously. "It's much more powerful than the one you've got now."

The mage eyed the staff warily, shooting a dubious glance to Varric before meeting Lavellan's eyes. "Inquisitor, I appreciate - and often encourage - our environmental responsibility to recycle, but..."

"But what?" She asked, brushing sand from the raw bark of the grip and polishing the dingy skull at the crest with a sleeve.

His lip upturned in disgust, Dorian rearranged his features to project forced politeness. "No offence, I simply prefer _not_ to resemble a tasteless southern barbarian. And why do you always give _me_ the scavenged hand-me-downs? Why don't you ever seem to find a superior crossbow for Varric?"

Varric scoffed incredulously, "That's because such a weapon is literally impossible, Sparkler, and I am _personally_ offended that you would even suggest that within earshot of Bianca!"

"Oh, _pish,"_ he scoffed, turning to the Seeker. "Cassandra - "

"The Inquisitor has uncovered various swords and shields of quality on several occasions that I have used," she stated evenly. "Function over form, Dorian. Fashion matters very little when your life is at stake."

"Yes, and that's all well and good for the likes of you, but my _reputation_ is at stake if I'm seen carrying around discarded refuse."

"What do you mean, the likes of me?" Cassandra arched a dangerous brow his direction.

 _"Fenedhis lasa,"_ Lavellan swore, lowering the staff to her side, "I'll give it to Viv, then! ...No, wait, she probably wouldn't take it on the same grounds..."

" _Aha_ , you see?" Dorian smirked, feeling vindicated. "A perfectly reasonable standard to uphold for oneself."

"Well," Varric pouted his lower lip and shrugged, "if Sparkler won't take the nice staff, and Iron Lady turns her nose up at it, then might I suggest, Inquisitor, that you use those scraps of fabric you just found and make him a trendy pair of patchwork leggings?"

"Fabric?" Dorian's eyes darted toward Lavellan's pack warily. "...What fabric?"

Lavellan unclipped her rucksack and pulled out the torn swatches. "Oh, you mean the plaidweave, Varric?"

"Give me the staff," the mage blurted, taking the weapon from Lavellan's grip and hurriedly traversing up the hill to the next plateau.

Varric shot a victorious glance toward Cassandra, whom rolled her sharp eyes in annoyance. "Thank the Maker," she muttered to him, following laboriously after the two mages. "I never thought he'd see reason."

He chuckled to himself, blinking against the blinding light reflected off the endless sands. "Yeah, well, you of all people should appreciate the value of a well-placed threat."

Her eyes narrowed to slits as she turned in her trudging to glance back at him. "I don't do threats. I give ample warning with a chance for immediate cooperation."

"That's a threat by definition, Seeker. Trust me, words are my business," he retorted, grunting as he mounted the next steep hill. "Damn, I miss city streets and flat land."

"Just keep up, Varric," she replied evenly, "or the next time I turn around and find you missing, I won't go looking for you."

"Wait, was _that_ a threat?!"

"Words are _your_ business," she shook her head, leaving him behind. "Not mine."

Varric huffed out a rueful chuckle, uncorking his canteen and drinking water from it sparingly. Tying it to his belt loop, he grumbled, "Yeah, well I wish you'd mind your own, every once in a while..."

They caught up to Dorian, whom waited somewhat patiently in the shade as the Inquisitor dug through her pack for her hammer and chisel next to a large deposit of Paragon's Luster. He turned and nodded to each of them in turn, noting the looks of frank distaste written plainly on their faces. "Varric," he smirked wryly, arching a single dark brow in the dwarf's direction, "are you and Cassandra...?"

Shocked, Varric practically froze in place, staring up incredulously at the man. " _What?!_ No! Why would you even ask that?!"

"Truly?" He pondered, his eyes travelling over the dwarf, gauging his reaction. Finding him honest, he shook his head slowly."Bizarre."

"I'm right _here,_ " Cassandra glowered, indicating with a wave of her gauntlet as if ending a spell of invisibility.

"Just because two people dislike each other doesn't mean they're about to _kiss,_ Sparkler," Varric clarified with a turn of his lip.

Smiling, the Vint raised a finger slightly to accentuate his point. "Not according to your books..."

"Don't mistake me for that hack who wrote Hard in Hightown Two. I can _spell."_

Shrugging, Dorian dropped his presumptions and stepped toward Lavellan, his pack opened to receive the nuggets she had succeeded in collecting.

Varric looked after him and scoffed, shooting a glance toward the Seeker in his unease. As their eyes met briefly, the disgruntled pair turned away in awkward silence, both of them shuddering inwardly at the very idea Dorian presented.

There was no way in the deepest of the Deep Roads that it would _ever_ happen.

 _Yeah, keep telling yourself that,_ a small, niggling voice inside him nagged softly.

**~oOo~**

Nights in the desert were no cooler, but at least the camp nearest the Oasis itself boasted a mercifully cool mist from the nearby waterfalls. The scorching sun had long since set, and sure enough, the skin of his chest had indeed sizzled to an angry pink hue that would have put Aveline's blush of embarrassment to shame. He couldn't even stand the heat of the fire anymore, and again made his way poolside to splash the mineral-rich water on his scathing burns.

He'd more or less avoided Cassandra for the remainder of the day, and she had welcomed the cold shoulder he'd given her wholeheartedly. Besides, it gave him time to think about his writing in peace, so long as the Kid didn't reveal spoilers every time they crossed paths. Solas' question continued to plague him, though: Why _did_ Varric care so much about making it up to her? It wasn't _his_ fault Cullen had spilled that inkwell - not entirely, anyway, and certainly not enough to justify him going to such lengths to make nice with the Seeker. If anything, she owed _him_ for dragging him along to this mess...

But he had convinced Cassandra that she needed his help with the Breach, despite the death of the Divine to whom he was supposed to reiterate his story, and he'd hidden the location of Hawke from her, too. When he got right down to it and added up each and every transgression they each had committed against one another, Varric began to feel the heavy weight of it all press down on his broad shoulders.

Sighing, he stared into the aqua pools as they glittered under the moonlight, the reflections waving over his tunic in a watery dance as it caught the gold embroidery of his cuffs. Time seemed to slow as he focused on nothing in particular, offering a brief respite from all the insanity that plagued him day to day. The colour of the glistening blue pools reminded him of Hawke's eyes, actually...

"Ah... shit..." He gulped hard, closing his eyes and lowering his head in remorse.

"Varric...?"

He jumped and turned suddenly, locking eyes with Cassandra Pentaghast. Perturbed that she'd gotten the jump on him, he glowered and looked back down at the water, splashing himself once more for good measure before rising and making his way for the camp. "Seeker," he nodded as he passed her quickly.

She turned and followed him for a few steps, and in confusion, he pivoted on his heel to face her. "What do you want from me now, Seeker? To search my pack for 'correspondence' with my 'associates'?"

"No," she shook her head lamely, something like grief behind her shining eyes. After a moment, she gave a meek shrug and added, "Actually, I already did that..."

"Ah," he glared, crossing his arms over his chest and being careful not to wince at the pain there. "Of course you did. Find anything interesting?"

Her mouth opened and closed as she struggled to find words, but after a moment, her jaw shut in defeat. Sighing heavily, Cassandra turned away and sat down by the water, yanking off her heavily armoured boots and placing them neatly against a rock face as she lowered her aching feet into the pool, a leather-bound book opened to the title page on her lap.

Rolling his eyes, he turned and walked toward camp, deciding to put this all behind him for the night. He desperately needed sleep, and all he wanted at that moment was the lumpy, makeshift cot inside the tent he shared with Sera and Blackwall.

As he looked up the hill toward the fire, though, he located the silhouette of the Inquisitor towering above him, and after Lavellan was certain he'd noticed her, she pointed silently toward Seeker Cassandra, wordlessly ordering the dwarf back down to investigate. In frustration, Varric threw his hands up to protest the order given, and as she pointed yet again with force, Solas appeared just behind her, leaning on his staff and becoming the silent reinforcer of the Inquisitor's command.

His lip upturning in a growl, he made a swift about-face and skulked the short trek back poolside. Exhaustion and the weight of bittersweet memories pressed down on him to the point that he was beginning to feel snippy with virtually everyone, which bothered him exceedingly. Rubbing his tired eyes, he took a breath and counted to ten before he cleared his husky throat and quietly sat down at a companionable distance with the warrior, his eyes cast down to his hands to avoid having to look at her.

Minutes passed like this, and after an uncomfortable span of time, Varric began to wonder whether she was aware of his presence, at all. Maybe she was as confused as he was as to why he was even here, right now. Still, the sooner he talked, the sooner he could end this and go to sleep...

"So," he started sarcastically, "is this where I start compelling _you_ to talk? Should I ask the Kid if I can borrow his dagger so I can plunge it into that-"

It was then that he realised Cassandra was holding her copy of _Tale of the Champion_.

Varric's throat involuntarily closed up, choking off the remainder of his jest. Struggling to begin again, he shifted uncomfortably, fighting the rising tide of emotions.

Cassandra ran her hand over the inscription, silently reading it to herself yet again. _Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, It was lovely, and slightly arousing, to meet my number one fan. I guarantee you, every word of this book is true - especially the naughty bits. Sincerely, Garrett Hawke. P.S.: Please take care of Varric for me. Keep in mind that if I don't get him back in one piece, I'm coming for you. Also, stay the hell away from Anders. All the best, by the way!_

"He signed it," she whispered, a tear standing out on her pronounced cheekbone as she reached up to wipe it away. "...Varric..."

"Yeah, you, um," he forced the words out gruffly, keeping his eyes averted, "you asked me for his autograph, so I ran it past him when he got back to Skyhold... He could barely stop laughing long enough to take the quill from my hand..."

The Seeker stared at him openly, her mouth agape as she shook her head in stark denial of his reluctant gift. "Why would you do this for me...?"

Varric's face etched with remorse, insurmountable heartache evident over his features. "You know, I don't really know, myself," he admitted with a pathetic shrug. "It came up in conversation one night, so when he agreed to it, I broke into your quarters and... I borrowed it."

Thumbing the pages absently, she muttered, "I did wonder what had happened to it."

He nodded, placing his hands on his knees and adding, "I was going to return it to you, Seeker, but I just..." His voice trailed off, the distant roar of the waterfall disguising the clearing of his ragged throat.

Making to rise to his feet, Varric rubbed at his face and shrugged nonchalantly. "Anyway, you're welcome," he mumbled non-committally.

As he walked back toward the camp, Cassandra turned to watch him leave. "Varric," she called after him quietly. When he stopped in his tracks, his back to her, she stood and hugged the book close to her chest plate. "Thank you," she uttered honestly. "I believe this makes us even, now."

He smirked sadly, placing his hands on his hips and shifting to face her. "Just promise me one thing, Seeker, and we can call a truce."

She swallowed hard, her jaw clenching slightly as she did so. "What is it?" She asked painfully.

Varric pressed his lips to a fine line, meeting her eyes head-on. "Stop randomly searching my pack. You've got to learn to trust me."

Staring hard, Cassandra bent low and retrieved her boots, sighing quietly before walking toward the dwarf and staring down at him, determination in her eyes. "By the Maker, I swear to you," she promised him levelly, "I will respect your privacy from this moment forth."

Holding the warrior's gaze for a long pause to gauge her seriousness, he nodded imperceptibly in satisfaction and turned back toward the glow of the campfire. "Goodnight, Seeker," he called back, desperate for the well-earned, dreamless sleep of a dwarf after a long day.


	3. To Assume Makes an Ass out of U and Me

Cassandra pulled apart her heavy curtains, threw the dingy window wide open, and collapsed noisily on her rickety wooden bed in her humble quarters after a long few days on the Orlesian road. This high above sea level, set deep in the mountains, Skyhold was permanently blanketed in a thick white layer of snow, and it felt like the Maker Himself had reached his hand down to bless her with pure, cleansing ice. Ever the dependable warrior, she would never complain about something as inconsequential as the weather aloud, but that didn't stop her from letting loose in total abandon within the privacy of her room every now and again. All this beautiful snow felt like an answer to prayer after the scorching deserts of the west.

She turned over on her stuffed feather mattress and stared at the aged, splitting planks of the ceiling. Any other time, and she would be glaring at the fact that her roof sported such troublesome gaps and holes, but today, Cassandra welcomed the chilly air on her sun-kissed skin. Letting out the air from her lungs, she reached down to her side and undid the clasp holding her chest plate in place, tossing it open and pulling it out from beneath her. Usually she would rise to set it gently in her war chest at the end of the bed, but exhaustion overwhelmed her, causing her to feel slightly more careless than she liked to admit. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply, her chest no longer hindered by the weight of her obsidian armour, the breathable fabric reminding her quite harshly that she needed a bath... Immediately.

"So much for laziness," the Seeker muttered resignedly, walking across the room and preparing to light her chamber fireplace.

She chose a select few dry logs beside the mantle from the stacked pile she'd chopped herself, and encouraged the flames she slowly started by hand. Next, she picked up her personal cauldron and walked out her door to fill it with snow to heat for her bath. She could have just as easily asked one of Cullen's newer recruits to do all this for her, but she received a great amount of satisfaction in being self-reliant, even when she had the opportunity not to be. Besides, if anything, it kept her grounded.

She bathed in relative silence, humming a tune to herself from her childhood spent in Nevarra. Most songs from home celebrated death, and had dreary tunes with macabre lyrics, but she felt nostalgia for them, all the same. She lathered her bar of soap in her sponge and ran it over her toned, muscular arms, enjoying the feeling of cleanliness as the dirt and grime of travel simply washed away.

Unfortunately, this did nothing to put thoughts of the Champion from her mind. For the past few nights, she had suffered dreams, nightmares, brief flashes of imagery that sprang to mind every now and again. The literal walking nightmare she had experienced plagued her thoughts so vividly that she dunked her head beneath the water of her steel tub, shaking her head violently to rid her mind of Hawke and his untimely yet honourable death in the Fade.

As it inevitably did each and every time, memories of Hawke brought the dwarf's face to mind... One of confusion, denial, hopelessness, and tragic loss, all conveyed in seconds as he realised his old friend had not emerged through the rift at Adamant Fortress behind him. She would never forget that expression of silent grief on possibly the worst day of Varric's life as he hurriedly walked away from her to hide his tears...

She raised her head from the sudsy water and gasped, her lungs stinging from her effort to drown out her thoughts. _Enough,_ she ordered herself sternly, raising her knees to her chin and hugging her legs close to her steaming body. There was nothing she could do for Hawke now, however responsible she may have felt for his end. If she hadn't dragged Varric to the Conclave, if she had merely set him free and reiterated his tale to Justinia V herself, Varric never would have contacted Hawke to ask for his aid against Corypheus, which started the chain of events leading to his sacrifice...

"Maker, forgive me," she whispered, glancing up at the now signed copy of _Tale of the Champion_ perched atop her mantle, the edges of the leather where she had stabbed the book fraying with handling. Yes, "handling", a polite word for the treatment she'd given the book over the years. The same treatment she had given its author. If she was honest, perhaps she should have handled them both with more care than she had shown, thus far...

Sighing, Cassandra raised from her tub and stepped out, retrieving her towel from the back of a reclaimed chair and wrapping it around her cleansed body. _If only my mind was as cleansed,_ she thought absently as she dragged her fingers through the long lock of black hair before braiding it with a trained movement that had become second nature. Tucking it neatly around her crown, she took the tip of her towel and dried the water from her inner ear as she walked toward the bed -

And froze in shock.

Neatly upon her pillow was a tidy package, wrapped in twine and tied with a neat bow, a tag attached to it with a simple red ribbon.

Someone had been in her room... She'd heard no one enter or leave, the stealthy intruder having come and gone discreetly at some point during her bathing. With a shaky foot, she stepped backward and silently lifted the lid of her war chest, sliding out a small, sharpened dagger. Making a cursory examination of the small room, Cassandra held her weapon in front of her in a defensive stance, on guard for an attack.

Finding nothing amiss, she stalked over to the window and slammed it shut again, laying the dagger on the sill and turning toward the strange package. Pulling her towel tightly around her, she stepped to her bedside again and peered over the edge to read the script on the tag without touching it...

 _Look under your bed,_ it said chillingly. _Peek-a-boo._

" _Shit,"_ she rasped, diving away and rolling toward the window, where she promptly grabbed the discarded dagger and threw it forcefully toward the floor. It planted with deadly precision in the wooden floorboards with a loud _thunk!_ , sending splinters flying.

Nothing so much as made a sound.

Mustering her courage, she stormed over and yanked the blade from the floor, leaning down and looking beneath the bed frame. All was empty, save for the accumulating dust and a torn bit of parchment that she glared at in confusion. Taking it in her outstretched fingers, she raised it to her soft brown eyes and plunked down in her bed, making a deep, disgusted grunt in her throat as she crumbled it and threw it into the fire.

 _Gotcha,_ was all it had read in an all-too-familiar script.

**~oOo~**

"Okay, it's done," Cole nodded in confirmation, fidgeting aimlessly with the items on the makeshift writing desk. "Cassandra didn't see me go to her room, just like you wanted. Is that all, Varric?"

"Yep, that's all for now. Thanks, Kid - I'd have done it myself, but I've got a lot to wade through, here," Varric explained, his papers sprawled out in piles before him. It would look like a damn mess to any passers-by, but there was a method to this madness of his.

"It's okay," he smiled softly beneath the brim of his wide hat. "I'm glad to help if it makes her happy. And you have to write what the people tell you before you forget what they say."

"I always do what the voices in my head tell me to," Varric chuckled to himself as he glanced at the parchment under his nose and assigned it a specific pile to his left. "Let's just hope she's happy with it... Don't count on it, though."

Cole cocked his head to the side curiously. "Why wouldn't she be?"

" _Varric!_ "

He looked up in time to see Cassandra Pentaghast blow in with all the force of a violent headwind, rage in her eyes as she passed from the foyer and into the main hall. Cole jerked away and retreated, though it seemed as if she hadn't noticed his presence at all. Everyone else took note of hers, however, and gasps erupted through the gathered nobles and diplomats as she flipped his long table without warning, parchment flying in every direction.

"Called it," Varric cried as he dodged her fist in his precarious seat and raced to his right, slamming his shoulder into the closed door so it burst open and slammed against the wall, booming as it shut once more.

Solas turned from atop his scaffolding beside the half-finished mural adorning the wall of his study, paintbrush and pallet in hand. " _What in -_ " the elf started, his piercing blue eyes wide with alarm as Varric barrelled in and stood behind his desk, turning to face the door in time to see the Seeker crash through, as well.

She wasted no time in rushing toward the stocky frame of the surprised dwarf. Varric backed away a few steps, keeping the desk strategically between them, but in her impatience, Cassandra vaulted over the desk, knocking the lit candles from their silverite plates to the stone floor. Instantly, she pushed the short man roughly against the curved wall of the rotunda, a hand crushing against his trachea.

"What is the _meaning_ of this?!" she hissed, raising the parcel up to his face and shoving it against his smooth cheek. "How _dare_ you barge into my personal space without asking?!"

"Excuse me, but I could ask you both the same thing," Solas bit disapprovingly, setting his supplies down and sliding down the scaffolding, standing at a safe distance yet commanding authority of the situation that had exploded into his study.

Varric couldn't get a word in edgewise with her hand gripping tightly around his throat. With a choked gurgle, he placed his hands on her own and tugged himself free, staggering away, careful not to turn his back on the fiery warrior. "How dare I _what,"_ he glared in confusion, utterly shocked at her reaction to his gift.

In a blur of sudden movement, Spymaster Leliana landed with a loud bang in the middle of Solas' desk, having dived directly from her headquarters in the rookery located on the top floor, and instantly aimed her bow at Varric without hesitation.

"My _research!"_ Solas raced over, hurriedly gathering his delicate tomes and ancient materials, placing them gently on a sideboard away from the abrupt chaos. " _Fenedhis,_ it's bad enough the Inquisitor quite _literally_ drops in on me in that manner, Spymaster," he growled in annoyance, turning to rejoin the confrontation, "but does _no one_ respect property, here?!"

"Apparently not," Varric shot Solas an affronted stare. "Cut me some slack, Chuckles! Every woman in this place is suddenly trying to _kill_ me, and all you can think about is your privacy?"

"What about _my_ privacy?" Cassandra shouted, an edge of humiliation in her tone. "I _swore_ to you that I would no longer pry into yours, but you have no qualms about intruding upon _mine?_ You had no right to sneak into my quarters as I was washing, Varric!"

"You did _what?"_ Leliana breathed, her bowstring tightening.

"Oh, Varric," Solas shook his head in dismay, eyeing the parcel in the Seeker's grip and deciphering its obvious contents, "could this not have waited for a more opportune moment?"

Unable to resist the pull of the drama happening below him, Dorian descended the stairwell quickly and appeared in the archway, taking in the scene before him with amusement. "Hello, what's all this? Typical day in Skyhold, I take it?" He quipped, shooting a wry grin toward the dwarf, whom aimed raised brows of emphatic disbelief his way.

Solas threw his hands up and turned away in aggravation. "Yes, please do invite yourselves into my study and encroach upon my free time! In fact, call Josephine and Iron Bull; I don't believe every corner of Thedas has equal representation in this room, quite yet!"

"Your little scuffle is echoing through the entire rotunda. We can hardly _help_ but listen and watch," he revealed, waving his hand upward at the staring onlookers above them. Walking up to the desk, the impeccably-groomed Tevinter stared up at Leliana and clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, hands on his hips. "Is the bow really necessary, Nightingale? Surely peeping toms don't deserve outright execution, or do you charming rustic southerners dispense harsher sentencing than even my homeland?"

"I heard a friend in distress, and did my duty as protector of this hold," she replied icily. Relaxing her bowstring, she sighed and replaced her arrow in its quiver, hopping down from the now empty desk. "I want an explanation," Leliana demanded gruffly, frustration mounting within her. _"Now."_

"I'm sorry."

The group turned as one to find Cole standing sheepishly in the doorway, a nervous hand cradling his elbow as he hunched in on himself. He didn't look up to meet their waiting gazes, instead shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other under their scrutiny.

"I placed the present on your pillow, Cassandra. You were... busy, I know, but... I-I didn't think anything of it. I'm sorry," he apologised yet again, worry evident in his posture.

Astounded, Cassandra's scarred jaw dropped open as she lifted the wrapped parcel in indication. " _You_ put this in my room, Cole?" She asked, her tone softening under the light the spirit shed on the situation.

Cole wilted, looking desperately for the dwarf's assistance. "I asked the Kid to give it to you," Varric clarified, his body flooding with a heavy mix of relief and indignation. "If I'd known you were indisposed, I wouldn't have done it, Seeker. I thought you'd be out hacking your practice dummy to pieces - pretending it was me, again."

"Ah," Dorian sighed, a contented smile on his face, "you see? This has all been one big misunderstanding, so we can all stop attempting to murder one another... Today." He arched a brow and crossed the room, making his way up the stairs. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some reading to catch up on," he called down to them, a smile apparent on his voice as he left.

Leliana eyed everyone warily in turn. "Don't do this again unless it is a true emergency," she warned them in parting, disappearing soundlessly up the stairwell.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Varric turned his head toward Cassandra, the woman standing off to the side and fighting her slight blush of embarrassment. Instead of appearing indignant and justifying her actions in some fashion, she stood contrite, her back straight as she nodded to herself repeatedly, staring aimlessly as her mind was lost in thought.

"I was just kidding with the notes, Seeker," he offered in a gruff tone, feeling particularly prickly at present. "Lighten up a little, will ya?"

"How was I supposed to know it was Cole, and not you, when it was your handwriting I read?" She grumbled half-heartedly, staring down at the parcel to avoid his mocking gaze.

"Maybe you should actually try _asking_ me before chucking my work aside and throwing me against a wall," he bit sarcastically. "And anyway, how come you throttled _me_ over what you just _assumed_ I did, but the Kid gets off unscathed? You don't even _like_ him!"

Cole looked up, an injured look painted on his face. "You don't like me?" He asked Cassandra sadly.

Startled, Cassandra's brows shot up, and after she recovered, she shot a pointed glare in Varric's direction. "I certainly like Cole more than I like you."

"That's not saying much," Varric rolled his eyes in distaste.

"Cole is a spirit," Solas clarified softly, coming to the boy's defence as he made his way to his friend's side in a gesture of support, "and as such, he has no desires or compulsions beyond those of compassion, mercy, and helpfulness. Even if he stumbled upon Seeker Cassandra in a state of undress, spirits are far more predictable in their behaviour than mortal men. Despite your aversion to such misunderstood creatures, he intended and committed no harm to anyone. In this instance, he is absolutely blameless."

"It's true," Cole nodded, only the top of his tattered leather hat visible on his lowered head. "But I won't do it again."

"Don't worry," Varric mumbled, readjusting his tunic indignantly, "I won't ask you to."

An awkward silence passed between the four remaining companions, the bustle and activity above them resuming quietly. Cassandra looked up to meet Solas' narrow eyes, preparing to apologise and graciously bow out to leave him be, but she caught him looking critically toward the other side of the room.

Following his gaze, she caught sight of the Inquisitor lying on the ivory sofa against the far wall, eyes closed and fingers laced together over her abdomen. Solas caught the Seeker's shocked glance and sighed softly, his body relaxing as he strode across the floor to lower himself down and sit on the arm nearest Lavellan's bare feet, arms crossed over his chest in contemplation.

Varric gestured in disbelief, trading astonished expressions with the Seeker, his voice cracking as he fought through his bewilderment to speak. "Has she been here this _whole time?"_ He whispered, though he didn't know why he even bothered at this point.

" _No,_ I transported her here by magic so she wouldn't miss all the excitement," Solas looked up impatiently, clearly fatigued with the strange turn his afternoon had taken as sarcasm began to work its way into his words. "Why do you think I was so set against your sudden invasion? She must strive to remain focused in her meditation."

"It appears she's succeeded," Cassandra commented, studying the statuesque Dalish closely. "Is she sleeping?"

"She is within the Fade," Solas confirmed. "And doing well at remaining thus, I might add."

Varric looked nonplussed, pointing skeptically at the woman. "Is she faking it? I'm just saying - meditation, sleep, whatever you're teaching her - how is she not awake after all that?"

The elf glanced down at the Inquisitor's silent, motionless form, running a hand absently over his scalp as he answered the dwarf with a note of regret in his voice.

"I've managed to remain undisturbed through far worse than this in the past, child of the stone."

**~oOo~**

She should have been resting. Tomorrow was going to be yet another busy day. Cassandra couldn't afford to be tossing and turning like this so late in the evening.

But it was no use. She couldn't get the latest chapter out of her head.

The Knight-Captain had nearly been stripped of her position in the Order because of the lying accusations of a powerful, influential Nobleman who had the Viscount practically eating out of his hand, all because she had rejected his unwanted, slimy advances. The Guardsman she secretly loved had given testimony on her behalf in an attempt to save the Knight-Captain's career, to which she had dedicated her whole life, but unexpectedly, their "relationship" had been called into question. When he'd argued that he had no feelings for his superior, and that their after-hours friendship was strictly platonic, contradictory evidence was then presented, utterly shocking the Guardsman into silence.

Called to the stand and under oath, the Knight-Captain was then forced to admit her romantic feelings for her underling in front of the hearing board - and the Guardsman himself, whom had walked out of the room while she was still on the stand. She was pressed into revealing all of this due to the undeniable evidence of favouritism, gifts, and recovered letters professing her love and adoration for the man that she had discarded out of fear of rejection, but had been recovered secretly by her Nobleman admirer and submitted to the board.

But then a new character had burst into the hearing, calling an end to the proceedings so she could conduct her own investigation into the corruption within the city that was now ruining an innocent woman... One she recognised all too intimately.

Seeker Cristina.

Cassandra sat up in bed, biting her nails nervously and leaning her back against the cold stone of her bedroom wall. It was obvious Varric had based this character off of her. The dark-haired Seeker was all steel and ice, with a penchant for using threats of violence to achieve the desired result... But worst of all, she was beautiful and strong, despite her unconventional nature, a career woman with a passion for duty who didn't care for being assigned into societal roles of daintiness and delicacy because of an accident of birth... Varric clearly had a great deal of admiration for this "Cristina".

She glanced over at the newest chapter laying on her dresser under the moonlight flooding through her window, the pages bound with gold twine to hold it together like a book so she could read it anywhere without it catching the wind and flying off. Even still, she wouldn't be reading it outside. That particular bit of fiction was never going to leave her room again. For the first night in weeks, Garrett Hawke's was not the last face she saw before falling asleep. Now, it was only Varric's.

She much rather preferred her other nightmare to the new one developing before her very eyes.

"Damn you, Varric," she groaned sleepily. "Andraste, _please,_ I beg you, help me to continue disliking that lying bastard..."

Andraste never did answer her prayer.


	4. Liquid Sunshine

"Sera... _Sera!"_

" _Wot,_ weirdy-beardy _?_ "

"It's your turn, again."

"Oh good, cos I'm down to my last pair! Yer sovereigns are as good as mine, like!"

"Wrong game, Sera. This is Diamondback."

"Yeah. You'd know that if you weren't hiding under the table. The hell are you doing down there, anyway? It's freaking me out."

"Thinkin'... and drinkin'. Mostly drinkin', though."

Iron Bull traded an exasperated eye roll with Blackwall, unable to believe that the hyperactive elf had insisted on joining them, yet was barely present enough to qualify as an actual player. "Well," he started, an edge in his voice, "what _are_ you drinking?"

"Dunno," she answered, trying to focus her unsteady eyes on the label of the bottle. "Tastes like berry piss - you know, like if berries could piss, not if piss tasted like berries - even though that'd be brilliant! But I can't feel my arms, so it mus' be workin'."

"Right," Blackwall sighed heavily, scratching at his dark beard contemplatively, "do you want to have a go, or should I just pretend you're not here?"

"Yeah, pass! But just _try_ to ignore me," Sera giggled obnoxiously as she tickled the back of the human warrior's knee.

In reflex, Blackwall jerked his knee upward, slamming it against the underside of the table. " _Ah!_ Maker's Balls," he winced, hugging his knee with clasped hands, "I think I hit a nerve, that time."

"Stop me if you've heard this one," a voice like gravel cut in as a familiar figure strode through the hay confidently in the waning afternoon light. "A human, an elf, and a qunari are all playing cards together in a barn. A divinely handsome dwarf walks over and says, 'Got room for one more?'"

Sera's brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't get it."

"Take Sera's stool," Blackwall frowned, throwing down his hand in defeat. "This was going nowhere fast, anyhow."

"And watch out for the handsy drunk under the table," Iron Bull added. "She's not grabbing the good bits, if you know what I mean. You deal, newbie."

Varric took the vacant seat and gathered the playing cards in hand, shuffling them three times before dealing them out and placing the draw pile in the middle of the table.

"So, Varric," Iron Bull asked conversationally as he sorted his cards, "how's the new story coming along?"

The dwarf scratched at his ear and let out the breath of a laugh. "Which one? I've got a handful on the drafting board right now. Be specific."

"The one you're writing about the Inquisition," the qunari said slowly, as though he spoke to a complete simpleton.

"Tiny, what makes you think I'm writing anything _remotely_ resembling this shit-fest?"

Iron Bull shrugged to himself, dismissing Varric's subtle dodge. "When you write about me, make sure you talk about the shape of these horns. They're not just for decoration, Varric. These things can eviscerate a man in less than four seconds. Believe me, I've timed it."

Varric looked up from his hand skeptically. "I'm sorry, you want me to, what, write about the shape of your _horns?_ You not only think I'm writing a story about the Inquisition, but you're pretty sure your _horns_ are worth mentioning first and foremost? Not the big hole in the sky, or the ancient darkspawn magister aspiring to godhood?"

"If you two can't stop bickering, I'll fold this table up and go back to woodcarving," Blackwall grumbled, turning in two of his useless cards and drawing from the pile.

"What about you, Blackwall?" Iron Bull asked pensively. "How do you want to be immortalised in Varric's books?"

Glancing warily over the tops of his cards, Blackwall shook his head uncertainly. "I don't need to be remembered... What matters is that we save the bloody world, right? Any recognition for doing my duty is unnecessary."

"Wardens like Hero, here, don't usually care for recognition," Varric informed Iron Bull with a nod, leaning on the table with his elbows and discarding a bad card. "Most are sacrificial to the point of absurdity. He's so selfless, sometimes, that I'd swear he's got some crazy backstory I'm just itching to hear."

Blackwall cleared his throat gently, threw a sovereign into the pot, and stated evenly, "If I'm going to be remembered for anything, I just hope it's for trying to do the right thing in the end. I don't suppose I'm different from anyone else, in that regard."

"Ah," Iron Bull grumbled, meeting the bet with his own coin, "now you sound just like Cassandra. I can't be the only warrior in the Inquisition who enjoys caving people's heads in and getting paid to do it."

Varric's eye twitched slightly as he pulled a sovereign from his pocket and tossed it on the table. "Are we calling, or what? I once knew a _mabari_ that played Diamondback better than you two," he changed the subject with a slight smirk at the memory.

Iron Bull laughed quietly to himself, a wry grin overtaking his mouth. " _Listen._ Did you hear that, Blackwall? _That's_ the sound of hitting a nerve!"

"You what?" Blackwall's dark, bushy brows shot up as he straightened on his stool. "Varric, are you... eyeing the Lady Seeker?"

"Okay, hang on a second! I didn't realise this was Quilting Circle Night in the barn," Varric laughed in disbelief, getting to his feet decisively. "How 'bout I come back when you're done exchanging gossip like old biddies?"

"Sit your ass back down and play this hand," Iron Bull said in exasperation, pushing the dwarf's shoulder until he was forced back onto the stool. "Relax, Varric. We won't breathe another word about your thinly disguised feelings for Cass."

"Alright, I'll call. You boys ready to show your hand?" Blackwall asked pointedly, eyeing them all in turn.

Varric narrowed his eyes at the burly warden carefully, studying his features for tells, of which there were plenty. "Uh-uh. No way," the dwarf shook his head, throwing his hand down. "I fold."

Iron Bull pursed his lips and glanced at his cards, rearranging them in one last ditch effort to find a strong hand, and looked back critically at the man sitting across from him. "...Nah," he finally folded, tossing his hand to the table face-down, "you're too easy to read, Blackwall. I may not be working for the Ben-Hassrath anymore, but I could still smell your excitement for your cards a hundred yards away."

"What's the matter, lads? Don't think you can take me?"

"It's just your luck you got dealt a good hand," Varric crossed his arms and leaned on the table companionably. "Unfortunately for you, you're not a very good liar, Hero."

Blackwall looked down at his hand quietly, neither confirming nor denying Varric's statement, and gathered the cards and sovereigns, putting them away in the pouch tied to his belt. "I can see why you're interested in the Seeker, Varric," he leaned his cheek on a palm, lost in thought. "She's definitely... striking. A little stern, though."

"She _does_ have a tendency to strike me; I've actually lost count of how many times I've been struck," Varric bit sarcastically. "Wait, are we back on _that_ again? Let me spell it out for you two: _I don't have any feelings, romantic or otherwise, for the Seeker."_

"You know, we have a saying in Seheron," the qunari observed, leaning in and placing his hands on his knees. "I'll try to word it in a way you'll understand: 'When throwing stones at a pack of rabid hounds, you can always tell which one you've hit by whichever one yelps the loudest.' It's close to that, anyway; in the original, it's Vints instead of hounds. Are we throwing stones a little too close to the mark, Varric?"

" _No,"_ Varric outright denied this, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, "I'm just getting sick and tired of hearing that over and over again. Wouldn't _you_ get exhausted with continually having to deny an accusation like that?"

Blackwall crossed his muscular arms over his chest and scratched at the chin hidden somewhere beneath his jet black whiskers. "If you want my advice with Cassandra-"

"Andraste's Granny Knickers," Varric closed his eyes, lowering his forehead to the surface of the wooden table. "If it'll make everyone shut up, then _fine,_ let me have it. I promise, I'll _cherish_ your infinite wisdom on the subject."

"Well, if I say the wrong thing, she might have my head," Blackwall admitted, "but Cassandra is a warrior." He held up his hand as Varric rose to retort with something likely dry and biting, making the dwarf hold his tongue and wait to hear the rest. "That's all she's ever known, but that's not all there is to life. Show her that."

"And if you get _that_ far," Iron Bull grinned maliciously, "I've got some tips lined up for what to do with her in the sack. Believe me, she will be putty in your hands if you take my advice."

"No, I don't need any help with that," Varric commented absently as he pondered to himself quietly. "She _really_ likes my book, so I already know what she's - Shit, you almost had me pulled in, there!" He stood up, brushing himself off. "If you idiots are done making fools out of yourselves, I think I'll go polish off a bottle up on the battlements."

"So is _that_ what they're calling it, now?" Iron Bull laughed, standing up and preparing to leave as well. "This was good. Next time, we should get all the guys together to play one night. Just us boys."

"Not Solas," Blackwall shook his head decisively. "He's a damned dirty cheater. You've been warned."

"Yeah?" Varric asked, "How so?"

Blackwall pursed his lips and shook his head, glowering with slight contempt. "It's all I can figure," the man replied, his voice lower than usual. "Taught him the game when we first got here. Then he turned around and _beat_ me at it... Lost everything. Had to walk back to my quarters with only a bucket for my bits."

Iron Bull let out a hearty laugh. "Ah, the walk of shame! That would have been a sight to see! Okay, no Solas, but tell the other guys. Next week, after we get back from wherever the hell we're going." And with that, Iron Bull turned around, and -

 _"Whoa,"_ Varric and Blackwall cried out in shock as they were suddenly swept off their feet and dragged along with the table behind a staggering Bull.

"See what 'appens when you lot ignore me!" Giggling with unsuppressed glee, Sera rolled out from under the chaos and ran for all she was worth past the market stalls, shouting and pointing toward her victory for all that would take notice.

"How the hell did she do that?!" Blackwall demanded, lifting his face from the hay, bits of straw sticking out absurdly from his hair. "Never felt a damned thing!"

"I have _no idea,"_ Varric groaned and shook his head, thoroughly dumbfounded. "My boots don't even have laces! This is some weird shit."

"You think _that's_ weird," Iron Bull turned, jostling the two men lying prone on the ground as he pointed downward, "I'm wearing fucking sandals!"

**~oOo~**

Varric held the dark, waxy green bottle by the neck and climbed the stone steps leading to the battlements two at a time, determined to spend an afternoon alone with his thoughts and his drink. Well, it wasn't his drink - actually, it was Bethany's. He'd been lucky enough in their travels to sift through a pile of burnt out rubble and find it, only slightly damaged amongst the smouldering debris. Dutifully, Varric had sent a letter to Bethany in regards to the Inquisitor adding the dusty old bottle to her collection of brews, and her reply had been one of good humour, insisting the curious dwarf definitely shouldn't drink the other wardens' concoctions, but assuring him that her own was safe for dwarven consumption, if he was so inclined.

And he was today.

He walked the length of the battlements with careful steps, raising the mouth of the bottle to his lips twice before reaching the set of stairs leading down to their old spot, his head already beginning to swim with both alcohol and anguish. Bethany's brew tasted of flames and warm sunshine; it was fitting, and he smiled softly at the thought. Looking up to the place where Hawke had passed the occasional evening reminiscing with Varric, his heart all but stopped dead in his chest.

 _Damn it,_ he swore inwardly, his eyes darting up toward the stairs as he backed away slowly. _What the hell is she doing here?_

She was faced away from him, her elbows propped against the stone as she stared down at the courtyard. If he could just skulk away quietly, she might not -

"Varric," Cassandra turned her head slightly to acknowledge him before returning to glance downward at the activity of the courtyard below once more.

 _Well, there goes that plan,_ he thought derisively, his shoulders sinking in defeat. Relenting, he nodded and pivoted on his heel, dragging his feet only slightly as he silently came to her side.

"If I could ask something... That fear demon we encountered in the Fade," she muttered quietly, her voice straining like a rusty hinge. "What it said to Hawke... Did he really think that, no matter what he did, he was utterly inconsequential to all that ever happened in Kirkwall?"

"You never were one to waste time with small talk," Varric remarked, turning to lean his back against the stone. "You really want to know the answer?"

Cassandra laced her gloved fingers together, shifting her weight from one hip to the other as she glanced at her companion apologetically. "Not if you came here to forget all that," she nodded slowly, squinting into the mountain sunset.

Varric shook his head resignedly, drinking from the glass bottle he grasped in a tight fist. Hissing against the sting of the alcohol, he swallowed again to clear his throat before stating, "I only come here to remember."

As she lowered her head and closed her eyes, Varric heaved a heavy sigh from the core of his being and threw caution to the wind as the whiskey loosened his mental restraints momentarily. "The honest answer, Seeker, is that I don't know. If Hawke really felt like nothing he ever did mattered, he never outright told anyone... Except maybe Anders, but even then, I doubt it. Hawke always greeted the shit we faced with a joke and a smirk, so if he ever thought it, he buried it pretty deep..."

She kept her silence as her hands clasped tightly together, her head bowed in contemplation as she considered his words. "I am sorry for prying, Varric," she apologised, her voice low and grave. "I should return to my duties." Cassandra turned and set her features blank and unreadable as she made her way to the steps leading to the battlement walkways.

"But I know the other taunt was on target..."

Faltering in her steps, the Seeker froze, clearly intrigued by Varric's admission, but not immediately moving to rejoin him. Maybe it was the drink, or maybe it was the loneliness, but either one was now compelling him to raise his bottle to her invitingly. Clearly unsure of herself, she turned to face him, a single arched brow raised suspiciously.

To entice her further, Varric began his explanation without waiting for her to return. He needed company, regardless of its quality at this point. "Hawke lost his father to an illness years before the darkspawn poured in when the Blight reached Lothering. Then his kid brother, when they were just minutes from escape," he whispered with a voice like kicked gravel. "When we went to explore the Deep Roads with Bartrand to make our fortune, he nearly lost Bethany to the Blight, but Blondie used his old Warden connections to save her... Hawke never forgot that... And when Leandra was murdered years later, Blondie didn't hesitate for a second to go to Hawke and be there for him during his breakdown."

Cassandra made her way slowly over to Varric, taking the proffered bottle from him and drinking a cautious swig. Finding the contents pleasant enough, she passed it back, and he took one last mouthful before handing it to her and indicating with a wave that he had had enough.

"Hawke lost his whole family, and I know he felt responsible in some way for each and every death," Varric revealed after a moment. "So it made sense, in a sadistic sort of way, for that asshole to frighten him with the thought of losing Blondie, too. Hell, that's the whole reason Hawke couldn't kill the bastard after he blew the Chantry sky-high."

"What about Anders?" Cassandra wondered quietly, her eyes filled with a quiet worry. "Will he... be all right, or...?"

Rubbing his numbed face tiredly, Varric breathed deeply and moved his thumbs downward to hook into his belt loops. "Oh, I seriously doubt it," he mumbled, staring at the toes of his tan boots.

Nodding in understanding, the Seeker cleared her throat and leaned up, her brow furrowed with a bleak sadness Varric had never quite seen in her before. "You okay, Seeker?" He wondered, suddenly alarmed.

Her brow knitting in grief at his concern, Cassandra grunted sternly to herself and reset her features to appear hardened and uninviting yet again... But Varric needed only that brief glimpse to see that she was deeply troubled.

"It was not your fault, Varric," her bloodshot eyes met his head-on. "Hawke was not in danger that day because of you. The nightmare laid the blame at your feet, but it was wrong. It only said that to hurt you... The fault was mine."

"What are you talking about? Of _course_ it was my fault," Varric countered, taking the liquor from her hand forcefully and downing the remainder of its contents. He turned instantly and threw the glass bottle straight over the side, not even caring enough in his bitterness to watch as it shattered against the frozen rock face below.

"If I hadn't taken you prisoner and dragged you to the Conclave with me, Hawke might still be - "

"Seeker, I could have escaped you so many times on the journey from Kirkwall to Haven that I stopped counting after we had crossed the Waking Sea," Varric practically chuckled at the idea.

Her eyes widening in shock, Cassandra stepped back a pace. "If you're so confident you could have escaped, Varric, then why didn't you?!" She demanded indignantly. "Clearly, it wasn't for my engaging conversation!"

He smirked gently, glancing her way before staring up into the fading light of the clear blue sky. "That's a story I'm not ready to tell," he said cryptically, rubbing the end of his nose with a finger as he turned silently and mounted the stairs.

"Oh, speaking of stories," Varric remembered, pausing in his ascent to face the speechless woman, "did you enjoy the latest chapter of _Swords and Shields?"_

At her instantaneous blush, the writer had his answer, and he laughed to himself quietly as he reached the landing and turned to go back down the battlements in the direction he'd come. The chill came on again suddenly with a harsh wind off the mountain, and he scurried into the abandoned room ahead, careful not to trip over the discarded, rotting wood in the middle of the floor.

The door blew shut from the gust of wind, but amazingly, it burst open again with such force that he was taken aback, shifting himself to face the doorway as Cassandra passed through. He waited for her to make a move, on guard for her to inevitably rush him and throttle him yet again, but once more he was taken by surprise as she gripped her short hair and grunted deep in her throat, suddenly pacing the length of the spacious room.

"All right, it was good," she admitted begrudgingly. "Incredibly good. The Knight-Captain's revelation, the Guardsman's reaction, the tension, the pacing, all of it!"

Varric smirked in amusement at her reluctant statement, making no qualms about how much he was enjoying this. "Anything for my loyal readers," he crossed his arms over his chest somewhat victoriously. "You're _welcome_ , by the way."

Cassandra paused in her swift pacing, her eyes glazed with confusion for the shadow of a second before she took his meaning. "Oh, I never actually thanked you, did I?" she realised belatedly, the blush returning to her scarred face.

"No need to thank me," he chuckled at her reaction. "Your utter torment is thanks enough."

"You don't understand," she fidgeted, not knowing what to do with her hands. After finding no gesture suitable, she threw them up toward the ceiling in frustration. "Maker, help me find the words to say this."

Flabbergasted, Varric recognised her seriousness and leaned against the stone wall patiently. "Okay, you got my full attention, now, Seeker. If you've got a critique, let me have it."

Her eyes darted about the room, trying desperately to focus on anything but his face. "Seeker Cristina," she started, but her words failed as her throat dried up like ram jerky.

"Ah, so _that's_ what this is about," he nodded in understanding, fiddling with his gold hoop earring absently. "You want to know if - "

"Is she me?" The warrior interrupted hotly.

"No, she's a character I invented in my head. You're _Cassandra_ , remember?"

"That's _not_ what I meant, and you _know_ it!"

Wary of being strangled again, Varric raised his hands innocently before himself. Seeing his gesture of alarm, Cassandra turned away and resumed her pacing. "Seeker Cristina," she began again, "slams through that chapter like a blunt weapon. She commands authority, demands respect, pushes past preamble and stabs at the heart of the issues plaguing the city."

"And you see yourself in that, do you?" Varric asked somewhat teasingly.

"How could I _not?"_ Cassandra cried, eyeing him suspiciously. "Do not play games with me, dwarf; I _know_ what I have read - I read it eight times! Even her name is a shadow of my own!"

At his following silence, she stepped closer to him, and he stiffened defensively at her nearness. Noting his uneasiness, she relaxed her posture with a trembling sigh and closed her eyes. "I know what I appear to be to others," she confessed readily. "To you, I am... harsh. I know it. I'm..."

Her mind couldn't conjure the rest of her statement, so Varric helpfully finished it for her. "Overbearing, driven, demanding, sharpened like the edge of a poison-dipped blade, rude, prying into business as if it was your own - "

" _All_ of those things," she cut him off, waving him away like a buzzing fly. "But I am also dedicated. Passionate. I try to do what is right for Thedas, for the Inquisition, for my friends."

"Why, Seeker, you have _friends?_ Do they _know_ they're your friends, or do you give them the same treatment you show me?"

Exasperated, Cassandra stepped away and faced the opposite wall, pressing her forehead against the cool stone for a moment's respite. "Varric, be serious for once... I have tried to teach myself patience," she muttered, her voice echoing through the chamber, "but it does not come easily... I see what must be done and I do it, regardless of what may stand in my way... Even honourable people such as yourself."

A subtle shift touched Varric deep down that he hadn't anticipated, and the air between them seemed to lighten with the gentle lifting of mental restraints, wholly surprising him anew. "Hey," he offered, clearing his gruff throat, "I know I say a lot of shit just to piss you off, Seeker, but... maybe that wasn't the right time to do it. I'm sorry."

She let out the breath of a laugh, her hand pushing off against the wall as she turned to face him yet again. "I know you do. And I always take it as it was intended, believe me. For that, _I_ am sorry. I am a warrior; I must learn to take the damage dealt and brush it aside... But when I read how you wrote Seeker Cristina, how admirable she is, how strong and... beautiful... I cannot help but think..."

This was growing increasingly awkward. Varric needed a way out that didn't involve tears or fists in his face, and he needed it yesterday. "Well, Cristina is based off you, just as the Knight-Commander and the Guardsman are based off old friends of mine back in Kirkwall. Does that help?"

Apparently that had only amped up the awkwardness, and as the silence grew and filled the room, the only sound penetrating the space being the howling wind outside, Cassandra stared at her clasped hands in indecision. It was obvious she wanted to say something to fill the emptiness, but words had never been her strong suit. Instead, Varric took another stab at it.

"I was just trying to make up for what happened in the tavern, but if this raises too many questions for you and you don't like the direction this is heading, I can stop writing the story."

 _"No,"_ her voice cracked with urgency, causing her face to redden with embarrassment. Clearing her throat, she took a level breath and restated evenly, "No, Varric, I... If you are still willing to write it, I would like to find out what happens next... Please, do not stop, now."

Rubbing his neck roughly, the dwarf shot her a reassuring wink. "All right, Seeker. I'll have the next chapter to you within the week - barring any more weird shit that might call me somewhere else." Relieved the conversation was over, he turned and opened the door leading to the top floor of the tavern, resolving himself to a relaxing evening filled with lighter talk than this.

"Varric?"

He paused in the doorway, Maryden's soft, velvety voice pouring in like flowing water from a gentle spring. "Yeah?"

A moment passed, and he turned to look her in the face, her brow creased with a heavy mix of anxiety and gratefulness. "Thank you. In advance, this time."

He nodded once, an odd smirk turning his mouth at the corner of his lips. "No problem," he replied, disappearing through the doorway. Hopefully that would be the end of it.

But he couldn't help but feel that, somehow, this story was only just beginning.

...In more ways than one.


	5. Heroes and Villains

_When she'd asked, or as she preferred to call it, "politely demanded", to see all the paperwork on the case against the Knight-Captain, she hadn't expected this. The wall of Seeker Cristina's office in the Gallows was stacked as high as the bridge of a dwarf's bulbous nose, with boxes upon boxes of files, dossiers, hearing minutes, watch reports, witness statements, and even sundry receipts dating back to the Knight-Captain's first day on beat as a rookie Guardsman well over a decade ago._

_Somebody high up the chain of command was sending her a message, and that message was about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the back of the knees._

Cassandra glared at the parchment suspiciously, shaking her head from side to side as she pursed her lips in mistrust. The heat of the campfire was just enough to stave of the icy chill that blanketed over the moonlit, snowy hills of Emprise du Lion. Burying her nose within the pages, she continued:

_Cristina had interviewed the Knight-Captain extensively that morning, since being on paid leave left her nothing better to do with her time, but her questions had gotten her nowhere further than when she'd first walked into the woman's parlour. It was blatantly obvious from the first few minutes that the Knight-Captain had no better an inkling as to what was happening behind the scenes than the Seeker did, let alone who was actually behind it all._

_Still, she had one informant in this Maker-forsaken city who might be able to offer the information she needed... For a price._

_But that shady bastard was a last resort, one who she would avoid at all costs, if she could help it._

"What's that you've got there? More drivel?"

She reflexively threw the pages shut, her icy index finger thankfully still holding her place, and looked up from her seat on the wet log to find the curious mage staring down at her reading material, brows drawn together in intrigue at her instinct to hide the chapter from view.

"It's nothing, Dorian," she replied levelly, "just... mission reports that I need to catch up on."

"Ah, that explains your overt secrecy. For your eyes only, I take it?" He smirked charmingly, taking a seat next to the flames and blowing his hot breath into his fists to warm them before exposing his palms to the fire.

"You could say that, yes," she confirmed, cautiously opening the makeshift book on her lap again and keeping an eye on him in her peripheral vision. "What are you doing awake at this hour? You should get some rest before we take the keep, tomorrow."

"So should you," he commented dryly. "I'm a touch early, but it's our turn to take watch. Bull and Vivienne should be here any minute to join me, unless you had your heart set on keeping the wolves at bay until dawn."

Seemingly taking notice of their presence for the first time, Solas perked up at Dorian's words and rose, stretching the tight cramps from his muscles. "They're too preoccupied huddling for warmth in their dens... Intelligent creatures, wolves. We should all strive for such pragmatism," he nodded his greetings, pulling his large furs about him closely and rubbing his hands together vigorously to restore blood flow. "Cole, our shift is ending. Will you be retiring to your tent?"

Cole shook his head in confusion, his eyes presumably darting from one person to the other from beneath his tussled hair. "I don't need to sleep. I am watchful, wakeful, wanting nothing but to wait and warn. A candle in the darkness, burning bright... Why do you want me to stop?"

Solas inclined his head as he explained, "There is a sense of fairness to it, Cole. Taking it in turns to protect the camp keeps anyone from feeling they're being taken advantage of, regardless of whether they can endure without rest."

"But I _want_ to help," Cole breathed, his eyes cast toward the icy expanse of the landscape. "...I will stay, for now."

"As you wish," the elf acquiesced, turning and nodding to Dorian and Cassandra. "Sleep well, Cassandra. Good evening to you, Dorian."

"Yes, pleasant dreams, Solas. And say hello to your little spirit friends for me," the Tevinter yawned. "Has someone put the kettle on, yet? I could use a good cup of tea."

His lip turning up slightly, Solas paused in mid departure, his narrow blue eyes darting about and spotting the black kettle off to the side. He connected it back over the fire to boil with a fatigued hand. "Enjoy your hot dirt water," the elf chided before heading off to the tent furthest away and tightly securing the red door flaps behind him.

"Bloody peasant," Dorian muttered, barely audibly.

"I heard that, you overdressed peacock," came the sleepy, muffled shout of the wandering apostate.

He laughed silently, a smile turning the corner of his mouth. "Ah, yes, I'd forgotten about those keen elven ears. They're not just for show, you know." Dorian glanced at Cassandra then, hoping to share in a bit of light-hearted banter with her.

The Seeker was hardly paying attention to their back and forth, her mind absorbed in her reading as she absently brushed away fresh snowflakes from the parchment before they melted.

"Dear me, that is a dreadful amount of paperwork. I wonder how the Seeker will find the time to sift through it all."

Slamming the pages shut yet again for fear that the woman was reading over her shoulder, Cassandra met the soft brown eyes of a fully awake Vivienne and blushed profusely in embarrassment.

"She'll find a way to finish it," Dorian cut in wryly. "She always does, or so I presume."

"Yes, I imagine she's quite ingenious, that one," she agreed, lowering herself to a log as though it was a throne she sat upon, ironing out the wrinkles in her long robes. Despite her suspicions regarding the mage from Tevinter, he was practically the only one in their merry band whom also shared her taste in clothing and culture, and she graciously made due with the hand fate had dealt.

"Will you be having tea, Vivienne?" He asked politely, gesturing toward the kettle.

"That would be exquisite, my dear."

"Wonderful! I take cream, no sugar, please, and piping hot."

Vivienne's soft, floaty laugh escaped her throat between tightly closed full lips. "Oh, Lord Pavus, surely you jest. I never make my own tea. No cream, one sugar, if you would be so kind."

"Those that help others must first help themselves," he said unrelentingly, leaning back comfortably and crossing his arms.

"Those that help themselves only do so because they do not possess the means with which to afford the help of others," Vivienne raised her brows nonchalantly, not making her way to the now whistling kettle over the fire in the slightest.

"I don't see you paying me anything for my services," Dorian retorted.

"Darling, my patience with you is costing me more than sovereigns could compensate, at this point."

"Do you need help?" Cole offered, turning to face them eagerly. "I could make the tea for you."

Vivienne pursed her lips in disdain and glared at the spirit boy suspiciously. "Never accept anything offered from a demon. If only the Inquisitor had been trained in a _proper_ Circle, she might understand that."

"I'm not a demon," he answered her honestly, taking no offence to her verbal jab. "The water is singing. The teapot will tell the templars where we are."

Iron Bull made his way over to the kettle out of seemingly nowhere, removing the heated metal with his bare hands and ignoring the sting it rightfully ought to have caused. "I can't believe I got stuck on watch with you two. Not even the Qun is going to calm me enough to stand your bickering for more than ten minutes... Just cream, right, Dorian?"

Dorian noticeably stiffened, his eyes wide for a moment before he leaned his elbow on a knee and covered his twitching mustache with a hand. "Er, yes... Cheers, Bull."

Vivienne and Cassandra exchanged glances, each with a single brow raised in interest. "How does the qunari know how you take it, Dorian?" Vivienne pried, her curiosity piqued as a knowing smile already touched her lips delicately.

"It's _The Iron Bull -_ uh, ma'am _._ And believe me, I know _exactly_ how he takes it, " Bull grinned mischievously, winking with his one good eye at Dorian as he handed the frozen man a steaming mug.

Dorian cleared his throat and coughed awkwardly, refusing to make eye contact with anyone as he buried his face and scalded his tongue on his tea, but it was far better than the alternative. "He must have... overheard our little exchange." He shot Bull a warning glance, and the qunari shrugged dismissively, turning his back on him.

"How do you like your tea, ma'am?" He asked somewhat meekly, slightly annoyed that he was waiting on them like a servant, but too afraid of Vivienne to refuse.

"If you overheard our conversation, _The Iron Bull,_ you should know precisely how I prefer it," she said, testing Dorian's proffered theory.

After a long pause wherein all eyes shifted to an increasingly uncomfortable Dorian, Cole turned to them once again, taking his eyes from the hillside. " _No cream, one sugar, if you would be so kind,_ " he echoed Vivienne's earlier request, his voice light and putting on airs. Had they not already known he was a spirit, it almost would have come across as mockery. Even so, Vivienne seemed to take it as such, and scoffed under her breath.

Dorian let out a trembling sigh and stood up suddenly. "Oh, look! I think I see a red templar over that hill just there. I think I'll perhaps throw myself at him and pray he mercifully ends my existence." With that, he set off to get away from the fireside as fast as possible, feeling their eyes bore into his back, Bull's own eye slightly lower.

"I don't see anything," Cole shot up, coming after him as he unsheathed his daggers. "Dorian, where do you see the templar?"

Chuckling to himself, Bull took Dorian's spot as he lowered himself down with a groan. "He'll come back. He always comes back."

Nodding in understanding, Vivienne tactfully kept her observations to herself as she glanced toward Cassandra, whom was once again engrossed in her reading. "I do hope Varric completes that story soon, Lady Cassandra. I'm greatly looking forward to the novel he's promised to write based on the Orlesian Court, but I'd never dream of rushing him. The more research he puts into court life, the better. Undoubtedly he'll still get it wrong, but learning a thing or two never harmed anyone."

Almost literally freezing in place, the Seeker's face shot up, her cheeks red from not only the bracing chill. "W-what?" She stuttered lamely. Straightening and slowly closing the crude excuse for a book, Cassandra's heart pounded away in her chest at having been called out. "These are just mission reports, Vivienne... It's not a story."

"Those are decidedly not mission reports, darling. It's fitting that a Seeker of Truth would be such a miserable liar, but there is no need to disguise the fact from me. His little scribbles are quite charming, I find."

For some unknown reason, Cassandra was about to jump to Varric's defence and advocate for his skill at storytelling, but she stopped herself short, her brown eyes darting to the left and focusing on the glittering of the newly-fallen snow as she thought. She did not need to defend him; his fine work spoke for itself.

Awkwardly, the conversation faded away, Bull and Vivienne opening a discussion amongst themselves ranging from how Vivienne could best assist him with her magic in combat, to Bull's take on the Qun's treatment of Saarebas. Happy to be ignored once again, Cassandra lowered her eyes and opened the pages once more, resigning to read just a bit more before she found her cot.

_She couldn't help it._

_Cristina's eyes refused to focus on the small script anymore, and slow, fruitless hours had passed without so much as even a faint sense she was headed in the right direction. There was no point in stalling further; the Seeker was just going to have to seek him out. It wouldn't be difficult, either. Instinctively, she knew he would be where he always was._

_The Condemned Man was located in Lowtown, a rough part of the city - as the name obviously implied. This place was anything but subtle, in just about every aspect. At this late hour, the sleazy tavern was still jam-packed with the kind of seedy individuals that by all rights should have been sleeping off their drunken stupors in a cold cell, but the guardsmen usually only went so far as to sweep them off the streets rather than go inside and risk causing a riot at the mere sight of their gleaming uniforms. Seeker Cristina completely expected the hands-on-hilts reaction to her presence, and they didn't disappoint her one bit._

_Ignoring the silence that fell over the villainous patrons, their sneers dripping with malice, she glided purposefully up the steps toward the back room of the tavern, where she knew he once rented a large, comparatively opulent room. Hopefully he hadn't decided to skip town after no doubt catching wind of her arrival, but she had faith that he was as predictable as she remembered._

_After all, in the thick of this dingy, criminal hangout, it was easier for the dwarf to keep an ear to the ground. And he was short enough that he didn't have to bend all that far to reach it, either._

Cassandra gasped loudly, a hand over her mouth. _He wouldn't,_ her mind screamed in frank denial of what she was reading. The story's focus was leaving the Knight-Captain and the Guardsman entirely now, and it seemed as though these new characters were about to take over her - _Varric's_ \- story. And not just any characters, but ones based off of -

"You okay, Cass?"

Iron Bull cut through her thoughts, causing her to drop the bound parchments in the snow at her feet. She scooped them up hurriedly, wiping the white flakes away before the latest chapter suffered any water damage. He eyed her in stark confusion, but Vivienne and Dorian - who had returned from his walk at some point during her reading - smiled so politely that it was plain to see they knew exactly what was going on.

"Breathtaking report, I see," Dorian put in smugly, trading a devious glance with Madame de Fer before they both rested their eyes on her yet again.

Vivienne nodded charmingly, joining in with the light teasing. "It must have been quite the mission, based on her astonished reaction."

Eyes still wide with shock at what she had read, Cassandra lamely wished them a good night as she rose to her feet and trudged with heavy obsidian boots through the snow, thoughts racing as she decided against reading further tonight.

Unfortunately, the sleeping arrangement also meant that she now shared a tent with Varric and Sera, and the two of them were now snoring away like congested mabari hounds in a kennel. In frustration, she kicked her boot against the bottom of Varric's bare foot, and he snorted loudly as he jerked violently, sitting up on his cot in mid-sleep.

"Serves you right, frickin' pisshead noble asshat," Sera slurred dreamily, taking the field blanket with her as she rolled on her side, completely unaware of Cassandra's entrance.

"What? I'm not even a noble..." Varric's eyes were apparently permanently glued shut, and he fell silent as she unfastened her boots and placed them at the foot of her narrow cot. Nothing about his demeanour hinted that he was even awake at present, and she aimed to keep it that way as she removed her chest plate and laid it down with a trembling hand.

But unable to resist getting one word in before he succumbed to oblivion again, she grumbled quietly, "I can't believe you would do that."

Varric ran a hand over his face and scratched his chest with long strokes, yawning loudly. "Whatever it is, I didn't do it, I swear."

Cassandra sat down on her cot noisily and threw the wool blankets over her body as she laid down to trap the heat of the fire within. "I thought self-insertion was frowned upon in fiction," she bit sarcastically, closing her eyes and feeling exhaustion finally hit her as her lids refused to open again.

Sighing, Varric plopped back down on his firm pillow and fought to regain his blanket from Sera's clutches. "Listen, Seeker," he yawned sleepily, prying the blanket successfully free, "whatever you want to get up to while reading my books is... actually, none of my damn business. But I'll take it as a compliment, either way."

Even though the pair's blissful snoring quickly resumed in the darkness of the tent, Cassandra's formerly tired eyes refused to shut again after Varric's sordid comment, her hot flush radiating intensely enough to stave off the icy chill for the remainder of the night.

**~oOo~**

The Inquisitor had a quiet word the following morning with her assault team for taking the keep. After a quick, awkwardly silent breakfast, Team A, consisting today of Cole, Solas, and Blackwall, quietly departed with Lavellan to clear the grounds and claim the fortress for the Inquisition. That meant Team B, also known more commonly as "the rest of the them," would spend their time exploring the area or killing enemies, and hopefully red templars would be among them. Bianca was just itching to take them out.

He often preferred Team B, although Varric did appreciate the Inquisitor's sensible decision when she did choose to take him to help her close rifts, but honestly, after Adamant he wasn't too keen to get near one again with Lavellan around - too much of a chance of falling in there again.

Instead, the six companions stepped lightly through the cave that acted as a passageway to the more elevated areas of Emprise du Lion, careful to avoid stepping on red lyrium shards as they went. The place was eerily quiet, the only sound that of the bracing wind whistling through the caverns, but of course, that didn't last long.

"...I don't really have that strong an opinion on the subject," Dorian was muttering to Sera at the tail end of the group. "It's not really my place to say."

"Wot, really? I thought everyone had a thing or two to say about it."

"Not everyone. Besides, considering my homeland and its history, I tend to reserve judgement on these matters. Everyone is suspicious of him, but at least he and I have that in common, now. Perhaps we'll form a bond over this while people learn to trust the both of us. I could give him hair tips! Maker knows he needs them."

"It's a bit stupid, though, innit? All this pretending to be someone else, making people believe it so he believes it? Why not just believe it without all the fuss?"

"Well, Sera, sometimes a man has to - "

"Enough," Cassandra shouted, taking everyone aback. It wasn't as though Sera and Dorian were having a particularly private conversation; sound was carrying in the enclosed space as loudly as a lively debate between a mage and templar in the Kirkwall Gallows. "I don't want to discuss the matter further."

" _You_ weren't discussing it," Sera pointed out, a thin brow raised skeptically. " _We_ were."

"I'm warning you, Sera," the Seeker growled under her misting breath.

The reluctant elf threw her hands up in exasperation. "Hey, I know he's in the shit now, but he's good people, right? Isn't anybody gonna talk about it, or is it just me? Like, get over it, and such. He ain't done anythin' to us."

Cassandra stopped the party and turned her glare on Sera. Varric knew that look well, and was immediately conflicted. One half wanted to run for cover or step back to give her a wide berth, but the other half wanted to take the focus off of Sera and let the Seeker blow up at him, instead. After all, she couldn't do much worse to him, and he could take it better than Sera - not to say the archer wasn't capable of fighting back. No, Sera was more antagonistic, and would probably say something with that witless tongue of hers to cause Cassandra to lose her composure entirely.

Before the words could escape his lips, though, Vivienne's light laughter brought the focus her direction. "Yes, we should all simply excuse the commoner stealing the identity of a high ranking Grey Warden, masquerading as a member of a failed organisation from a bygone era that is so crucial to the survival of Thedas that the last Blight only required  _two_ of them to kill an Archdemon."

Sera's brow knitted in confusion as she straightened and shifted her weight from one hip to another. "Yeah, that's wot... Wait, is she on my side or not, I dunno." She glanced at Dorian for assistance, whom simply rolled his eyes slightly and massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

"I'm just surprised he got away with it for so long," Iron Bull smiled slightly as he spoke, trying his best to diffuse the situation, to his credit. "I thought it was just qunari who had trouble telling humans apart, but I guess you humans do, too, if he can pretend to be another guy and nobody even noticed the difference."

"I, for one, don't care for the Wardens," Vivienne added, "nor Blackwall, for that matter, but to discover he's not even _that_ is simply laughable. I don't know what the Inquisitor was thinking, allowing him to stay."

"Do not question the Inquisitor so brazenly, Vivienne," Cassandra's voice cut through like a knife. "If Lavellan wishes 'Blackwall' to continue the fight, then let the murderer prove himself," she retorted, her tongue spitting the name from her mouth like a foul taste in the back of her throat.

"What about Solas and Cole?" Dorian asked curiously. "They're with him now, but _surely_ they have feelings about this. Did anyone gain any insight from them in the last few days?"

Vivienne and Sera both looked appalled at the idea that either of them would talk to Cole willingly, let alone ask his opinion. Varric, though, being the kind of guy that would ask these questions of people, knew the answer and readily provided it. "Chuckles is pretty cold about the whole thing. I couldn't get a good read on why he was so bitter, but it probably has something to do with the whole killing children angle," he bit sardonically. "And apparently... the Kid already knew."

Cassandra visibly stumbled, her eyes wide with astonishment. "Cole _knew?_ Why did he not tell us?!"

Varric shrugged, at a loss for a good explanation for anything the spirit did. "He said we all hide pieces of ourselves deep down inside that we don't want the world to know about. Cole didn't interpret Blackwall's secret as any different from the shit he's heard from other people... Something about carrying bodies around in his head, and that Blackwall would have stopped Rainier if he could, but obviously he can't, so..." Varric waved the thought away, unable to finish his sentence efficiently. "You know how he is," was all he could add, pleading to their understanding of the difficulties surrounding the enigma that was Cole.

"There are better uses of our precious time than to stand around in this dripping cave," Vivienne dismissed the conversation, heading off toward the light at the end of the cavern. "Let us put this pointless squabble behind us and be of some use to the Inquisition today, shall we?"

Nodding, Cassandra started to follow, as did the others in her wake.

"No, hang on a minute," Sera butted in again, her bow in hand as she frowned in disgust. "You bunch are bein' right-judgy arseholes! Blackwall's not _perfect_ , yeah, I get that, but which one of you lot has got the nose to go shunnin' proper good guys?! If anythin', we need _more_ like him helpin' us kick Corifyfish's face in! _And_ he's funner than you sticks in the mud, too, so don't punch a gift horse in the face."

"It's 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth', Sera," Dorian corrected her quietly as he leaned toward her.

"Okay, but that doesn't make any sense," she wheeled on him. "Why wouldn't you look at its mouth? Makes more sense not to go punchin' it in the face when it's a gift, or whatnot, because that's just not on."

Dorian opened his mouth to explain, but sighed in exasperation and gave up before he even began.

"Do you not wish to come along now, dear?" Vivienne said, a note of condescension in her tone. "I dread to think what we would do without your inane prattling to grace our ears for hours on end."

"Your - _face!_ No, wait - your mother!" Sera's face was beginning to tint red with anger as she fidgeted where she stood, gripping her bow tightly in her hands.

Iron Bull stepped forward and immediately took command, treating the group as if they were his own band of mercenaries. "Dorian, Sera, you're with me. Ma'am, Varric, you're with Cassandra. Blackwall's not going anywhere for now. Deal with it. Everyone needs to just cool it for a bit. Come on, let's go hit some things and work it out." He waved the two team members back down the cavern in the opposite direction and they begrudgingly followed, but soon thereafter giggling and light conversation could be heard echoing back to them.

Stunned, Varric stood in place, torn between going with Tiny's sensible arrangement and protesting that he should have to go with possibly the two least fun people in the Inquisition. Those guys were probably going to walk back down to the frozen waters and chuckle at the topless statues there. Without him. "Well, shit," Varric grumbled in resignation, turning to face the women, "that just split the crowd - literally. Guess you're both stuck with me."

A disgusted noise emerged from behind pursed lips as Cassandra led them to the cave's top exit, pressing on in silence.

**~oOo~**

Ten minutes in, and the Seeker was still stewing away about Hero. It was easy to tell - every time she slashed at an enemy with her longsword, she grumbled some variation of "lying bastard" under her breath. Either she was talking about him or Blackwall, but Varric thought he could safely venture to guess it wasn't him, this time.

"Calm yourself, Cassandra," Vivienne's gentle voice floated carelessly on the breeze. "Take a deep breath, darling. There's no sense dwelling on Blackwall, now. If you let thoughts of him dominate your mind, then you give him power over you that he doesn't deserve."

Cassandra didn't respond to this, instead picking through what was left of a small campfire just beyond a group of red templars they'd found, only recently dead - and not by their hand. "Who killed these templars?" She muttered to herself, her brow wrinkling at the mystery.

Holstering Bianca, Varric sidled over to Cassandra and squatted down next to her as she frowned at a torn and burnt section of what looked to be the fur lining of a robe. She was ignoring her feelings, and he had seen the effects this technique had on humans before. "Would it help to talk about it with another liar? Gain a little perspective?"

"What?" She said absently, coming back to herself. "Oh. No, thank you, Varric."

"Not too long ago, you were mad at me for spinning stories, but eventually you forgave me - I think. Can't you do the same for Hero?"

"That was different," she protested quietly as Vivienne glided a good distance away to look at the breathtaking scenery over the side of the mountain. "You didn't betray the trust of your men and keep silent as a young family was slaughtered before your eyes. You didn't run away and steal the identity of a man more honourable than yourself to hide your crimes. He _did_ , and I trusted him like a damned fool."

Varric readjusted himself to keep his balance, shrugging sheepishly. "Yeah, well, I may not have as colourful a background as the next guy. I'm just your typical shifty smuggler type, when you get down to it, but everybody's got flaws. Hero was too noble and perfect before we knew all this, and in a way, what he did probably made him into the self-sacrificing guy he is now. I don't think he ever faked that shining demeanour of his."

"So you're saying it's _good_ he ordered his men to kill those children, because it made him a better person? As if him becoming a changed man somehow justifies his actions?" She spat incredulously.

"No, I'm not saying that, Seeker, and you know it," he replied calmly. "What happened back then was terrible and he sure as shit knows it, but if he hadn't changed, do you think he would have stepped up and saved that soldier who was going to hang for it in Val Royeaux? I don't think so..."

Sighing out a long-held breath, Cassandra rose and rubbed at the back of her neck, the scrap of fur still in hand. "Perhaps you are correct," she admitted reluctantly. "And perhaps I should hear what he has to say first before I pass judgement."

"Blackwall, or Rainier, or whoever he is, can't change his past," the dwarf added gruffly, "but he can do his damnedest to atone for it. We should let him try, at least."

The Seeker glanced around for a moment, looking everywhere but into his pleading eyes. "Ugh," she made a guttural noise at the back of her throat, "I did not want to think about this today. I'd much prefer losing myself in a book than speaking about that man, right now."

Varric laughed despite the heavy mood, relieved for a change of subject. "Riveting stuff, huh? Good to know I haven't lost my touch."

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something, Varric," she turned to him suddenly with wariness in her tone. "Who is the dwarf character?"

"Ah, Victor! You like him? He's a charming, handsome, roguish fellow I thought up one sleepless night. Figured I'd throw him in and stretch his legs a bit before I added him to some other book down the line. You really gotta get a feel for a character before you can - "

Varric stopped dead as he finally recognised the scrap in the Seeker's hand, his face paling alarmingly. He stared at it for an unusual space of time, catching the attention of both women as he struggled, for the first time, to find words.

"Varric darling?" Vivienne asked, slightly concerned. "What is it, my dear? Has something upset you?"

The ginger dwarf's copper eyes rose up past the Seeker emblem on her chest plate to meet with her own, shock and panic written plainly over his features as he fought to breathe.

"Cassandra..." He whispered.

Her hand went to her sword immediately and she drew it in a hurry. He had used her name, and that could only indicate that something was about to go terribly wrong. "Varric? What is it?" She uttered back, her heart racing and slamming against her armour.

"Cassandra, listen to me carefully... Whatever happens," he urged her quietly, his voice carrying a chillingly grave sincerity, "no matter what you hear, run. Don't look back. Find So-"

He was swept off his feet in an instant, his tunic lighting up with blue flames as he flew through the air and landed in the snow ten yards away in a pathetic heap. Turning, Cassandra dodged the second ball of blue flame a fraction of a second before it slammed into her, her scarred jaw dropping open as she fell to her knees in a moment's paralysing horror.

_"I will have my vengeance!"_

Vivienne stepped between the newcomer and Varric, holding her conjured sword high. "Stand down, demon, or taste my blade," she roared, slashing through the air with her ethereal weapon threateningly. "Do not touch him again!"

_"I am no demon! Move aside, woman! I have no quarrel with mages!"_

"You do now," she retorted icily, preparing to attack.

Cassandra raced to Varric's side as Vivienne faced off against what Cassandra could only sensibly call a nightmare, her mind refusing to accept what was happening around her. "Varric," she cried, holding her shield up to protect him from another onslaught.

"Run, Cassandra," he groaned painfully. "If you can, get Solas and bring him back with you. I'll distract him - try to subdue him."

"But - "

_"Every one of you will feel Justice's burn!"_

"I said _run_ ," Varric demanded, standing with an agonised cry and taking out Bianca in one fell swoop. "Go! _Now,_ or you'll never find out how that shitty story ends!"

Before she could protest again, her feet were plunging deep into the snow, racing toward the keep in the distance as fast as her legs could carry her, determination and terror in her every step.


	6. Abomination of Desolation

She ignored the sinking of her boots in the white powder as she fought against fatigue to press forward, her frozen body flooded with cold, unadulterated adrenaline. The wind rushing past her bare face howled in her ears, but it wasn't enough to drown out his words, spoken with an otherworldly, even demonic finality.

_Every one of you will feel Justice's burn!_

Cassandra was feeling it, all right. Though she knew Hawke's involvement with the Inquisition had played a role in his death, this was not Justice as she knew it. Justice had been corrupted to vengeance, and Varric's old friend was now nothing more than an abomination, unable to see reason, blinded by deadly purpose. To her thinking, though, it couldn't have happened to a more deserving person.

That stopped her in her tracks as she looked back toward the path she had taken, the path back to Varric and Vivienne, now battling to keep the demon-possessed homicidal maniac at bay. Her position and training urged her to turn back, ignore Varric and slay Anders once and for all, but something about the way he had ordered her to run gave her pause. He had no authority to dispense such a command.

So why had she listened to him?

 _Find Solas and bring him back with you,_ his voice grated in her ears once again. Glancing behind her, she could see Suledin Keep in the distance, the stronghold so far from reach that she grunted with indecision. If she made it to the keep and did as Varric bade, Justice could overpower them in that time. She'd seen the destructive force of abominations before, and knew they had a determination to be reckoned with. However, if she came back without the rift mage to aid them, it would only end in blood... That wasn't a prospect that worried her, but Anders had been Varric's friend for nearly a decade, and she knew the dwarf would do anything to not lose yet another - especially one that had been so dear to Hawke.

She was wasting time standing here like this; she had to make a decision, and if she was going to get Solas and drag him back with her to confront the demon, she had to hurry.

 _Run,_ his voice whispered to her. _D_ _on't look back._

Heart pounding, Cassandra's mind settled on the path as she sprinted forward and took off like a shot. Trees rushed past in a dizzying blur, her misting breath blowing out of her before she took in another lungful of frosty air and snowfall. Her chest was fit to burst and her armour dragged her down, encumbering her as she panted and kicked her way through the snow to reach her goal.

She had to find Solas before it was too late.

**~oOo~**

"I sense another artefact of my People."

Inquisitor Lavellan's brow furrowed, the forest green _vallaslin_ of Mythal's tree appearing to sway on her forehead. "Why do you always call them _your_ People? It's a little possessive, Solas; they're my People, too, you know."

He sighed gently, his breath misting before his face as he met her large eyes with a mixture of exasperation and affection. "The elves that constructed these instruments were not Dalish, _vhenan_. That is all I meant."

"But they _were_ elves, like me," she persisted, tilting her head to the side curiously.

"No, Inquisitor, they were unlike any mortal elf living today," he replied with a gentle turn of the mouth, making his way toward the black sphere. "I mean no disrespect toward you personally, but the ancient elves hardly resemble the tales and traditions the Dalish passed down to their children through the generations."

Inquisitor Lavellan appeared to take this in stride, but paused in her steps as she turned to face the bald apostate head-on. "Resembled."

"Hmm?" He muttered absently, bending down to better locate the mechanism which would activate the artefact.

Lavellan eyed him oddly, a single brow lifting slightly. "You said 'the ancient elves hardly _resemble_ the tales'... I think you meant to use the past tense, there."

Solas paused mid-search, turning in his crouched position to nod in pensive approval. "So I did... That was a studious observation on your part, _vhenan,_ but I must have simply misspoken."

"No, you didn't," Cole interrupted innocently, his brow creasing beneath the broad rim of his hat.

Lavellan shot a glance to Cole in interest, and as she waited for more, the elven man moved a rod in place to close the circuit, the artefact sparking and humming soothingly to life, Fade-green energy immediately affecting the air around them and creating a warmth that felt inviting to their chilled bones. "There," he added before more could be spoken, "that should help strengthen the Veil."

Blackwall lightly planted his sword in the ground between his feet and leaned on it like one would a cane. "How exactly do those things work, Solas? Did you have to study them long to figure them out?"

"So many questions from you all today," Solas sighed, though he didn't seem as though he minded in the slightest. "If you are truly interested, I suppose we have a moment to spare. The artefacts are intrinsically tied to the Fade, and even when inactive, they emit subtle vibrations. When an artefact is activated, it emits a harmonic resonance that - "

"If it's going to take any time to explain, I should warn you now that I have absolutely no idea what you just said."

"Ah," he heeded the man's words, his full lips pressing to a fine line, "then I wouldn't want to waste my breath on those not educated in neither the arcane, nor the _elvhen_. No offence."

"None taken," Blackwall replied gruffly, clearing his throat as he pulled his sword from the ground and sheathed it carefully.

"I'm educated in both - or at least I have a passing interest and familiarity in those subjects," Lavellan added with scholarly intrigue. "How do you sense them?"

"It is a difficult sensation to describe, much like explaining the inner workings of the Fade to a dwarf - that is, unless that dwarf is the Arcanist in the Skyhold Undercroft," he answered somewhat hesitantly. "Though my long journeys in the realm of the spirits may have played a part in tuning me in to their presence."

Lavellan gestured to the young spirit at her side, whom stared out at a tarnished bridge in the distance, utterly statuesque. "Then why does Cole not sense them?"

Solas turned to her, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared at her with guarded approval. "Perhaps, then, being familiar with the spirit realm is not entirely sufficient, and my shared ancestry with their architects serves to supplement a somewhat broader understanding."

"But _I_ don't sense them, either, Solas."

A sad smile brushed his lips as he nodded and shifted his weight to the other hip, looking down to avoid her quizzical gaze. "That may go one step further to explain why I refer to them as 'my' People..." Before she could rise to take offence or question him further, he finished politely, "It may also be the case that both facts alone are not enough to sense them, but taken together, the two states heighten my own awareness to their proximity. It is possible that with further study, you may grow to recognise their gentle song, as well."

As she nodded her acceptance to his theory, Solas let out the smallest breath of relief, adding with a smirk, "I truly appreciate, Lavellan, that we've been graced with an Inquisitor who lives up to her title."

Blackwall had long since tuned himself out of their exchange, and instead had turned in the hopes of starting a conversation with Cole. Even if it might be awkward given all that had taken place in the past week, at least it was better than the cold shoulder to which he was growing sadly accustomed. Strangely, though, the spirit wasn't standing where he'd previously been. The warrior spun around on the landing and found the boy a short distance away, focusing hard on something only he apparently could see.

Something about Cole's demeanour struck him, and unease began to crawl over his skin. Despite that being a completely normal reaction to Cole at the best of times, it somehow felt quite different in that moment, and it sent a foreboding shiver up his spine. "Inquisitor," Blackwall called softly behind him, "something's, er... Something's not right."

Curious, the two spun to face him and followed his gaze to Cole, whom was now rocking from side to side in obvious agitation. Exchanging perplexed glances, they made their way hastily to the spirit's side.

"Cole," Solas started cautiously, "are you feeling unwell?"

"He sees him in dark dreams," Cole muttered quickly, his voice trembling audibly. "Bruised and bloodied with broken bones, but breathing - just barely. He can't save him, even though it is his home, yet he lingers, lost, listless, alone..."

"Cole?" Lavellan cut in stiffly, wary at his words.

The spirit didn't notice, lost in a trance as if he couldn't respond until he said everything that needed to pour out of him. "Anguish, anger, agony all around Adamant. He needed him to help calm his Spirit, but he never came back... Then a letter came, hinting at horrors that haunt him..."

Cole shuddered, beginning to pace quickly, making the others' eyes widen in alarm. "Paper cuts through his heart. The ink smears with tears. Is it the paper or the water that makes the words dance? Frightened, furious, his face fractures. _Can't hold him back, can't fight anymore..._ " The tenor of his voice changed suddenly to one of deep, demonic implications. " _Justice will be served! The dwarf must die!_ "

Cole's eyes regained focus then, urgency fueling his movements as he walked to the other end of the stone balcony. "It's happening now," his own high, pleading voice broke insistently. Turning to face them again, his body appeared as though he was readying to fight as his fists clenched at his sides. "He needs us! We have to help him!"

"Who needs us?" Inquisitor Lavellan practically demanded, desperate for clarity.

"Varric does," Cole replied, a trifle confused at her question as if it should have been obvious.

Knowing better than to ask for an explanation seeing as it would probably make less sense than what he'd already stated, Blackwall's blood flooded with adrenaline as his low voice asked pointedly, "Where is he now, Cole?"

The spirit shifted away from them, searching the snow-topped trees of the mountains, the winding expanse suddenly feeling unbearably vast. Ominously, he raised a finger and pointed toward a mountain in the distance that looked no different from any of the others. "That way," he spoke softly, his hand hanging in the air longer than necessary.

Looking deeply concerned, Solas turned to Blackwall and nodded once in finality, and as one, they moved to take immediate action.

"Do you know what's going on, Solas?" Lavellan asked as she walked briskly up the stone steps and turned to descend the main staircase, knowing all too well that he and Cole shared a unique understanding.

"I believe I have an idea," he stated grimly as Cole passed him to take the lead and guide them in the direction the spirit was being pulled. "Though I do hope I am mistaken."

**~oOo~**

Justice picked him up bodily by the neck, slamming his back against the tree again, and again, and again, shaking settled snow loose and sending it tumbling over his ginger hair. Varric heard a juicy crack and grimaced as he felt bone pierce through flesh, the breath robbed from his lungs. Stunned, he fought vainly to rid himself of the steely fingers around his thick throat, clawing at Justice as the icy fire began to burn against his skin.

He turned his head slightly to check on Madame de Fer, who laid face-down in the snow, her horned headdress very much askew. She had held her own against Justice for longer than Varric could have hoped, but one intensely cold burst of fire had penetrated her barriers and thrown her headlong into the tree he was now being held against. He'd been given a hard kick to the chest himself as he'd moved to rouse her, and Bianca was thrown too far out of reach to be of any use to him. Looking around and finding no companions returning to aid them, he once again met the inhuman, smoking eye holes of his one-time friend.

 _"Now feel the cold hand of Justice,"_ he roared, his fingers closing tightly around the man's throat as he pinned him to the tree trunk.

Varric spat a glob of blood onto the white snow, coughing as he fought to breathe. Something was broken, maybe a rib or three, and it stabbed at him every time he tried to inhale. "Andraste's lace pantihose - he's making puns now," he gasped hard. "Someone - put me out of my - misery," he wheezed out a laugh.

The grip tightened a notch, and with it, Varric let out a strangled protest. " _You find your death amusing, dwarf?! Even as injustice reigns down all around you?! Torture, destruction, corruption - "_

"The only bit of that - I can see is happening - right here, Blondie," he retorted with more than a hint of disdain dripping from his tone. "Get a hold of yourself! This isn't - justice; this - this is insanity!"

" _How dare you think to lecture me on the meaning of justice!_ "

"Well, words are - kinda my - business," Varric gasped raggedly.

_"Words are meaningless now! You ally yourself with those whom abandoned Anders' love to fate! I will destroy you for what you have done to Hawke!"_

"Too late," he mourned hoarsely, the grip around his throat momentarily loosened, "I'm already doing that to myself..."

He closed his eyes and waited for the black void to wash over him as the hand around his throat squeezed to a vice grip, cutting off all words and forcing his blood to a halt in his veins.

He didn't have to wait long before the darkness swept over his vision.

**~oOo~**

"There! Up ahead!" Blackwall pointed toward the Seeker, who was crashing through the countryside toward them, oblivious of their presence. Not waiting for them to keep pace, the warrior charged forward to meet her.

"Cassandra," he called, catching her attention as she skidded to a halt. He caught up to her easily as she bent with hands on her knees to catch her breath after presumably a long run.

"Thank the Maker," she heaved gratefully, straightening. "I never thought I'd be so glad to see you, Blackwall!"

"Me neither," he replied, significantly taken aback by her sentiment. "Where's Varric? We heard there might be trouble."

"On the mountaintop," she informed him, catching her second wind. "Where is Solas?"

"I'm here," the elf waved, flanked by Cole and Inquisitor Lavellan as they approached at a jogging pace.

Cassandra didn't wait to hear more, instead turning on her heel and racing back the way she came, trusting them to follow. "How did you know we needed you?" She called back to them as she powered forward.

"Lucky guess," Lavellan joked awkwardly. That Dalish always seemed to make light of dangerous situations. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism of some kind.

Solas caught up to Cassandra, his elven wraps practically hovering over the snow as the two warriors' boots sunk down with each long stride. "Cole sensed the danger and we responded in kind. Why are you not there to defend them?"

Her ironic laughter was covered by her controlled breaths. "Varric told me to find you."

"Me?" Solas was stunned, but pressed forward, keeping pace with them. "Ah, then I was correct to presume a spirit is involved," he deduced, wincing to himself slightly.

"An abomination," Cassandra corrected angrily. "I did not want to leave them, but perhaps Varric believes you can calm Justice and spare Anders - for now."

"Anders?" Blackwall cut in, the new snowfall sticking to his jet black beard. "Why does that name sound so familiar, and why do I suddenly have a very bad feeling about all this?"

"Because Anders sparked the Mage Uprising," she shot back icily as they entered through the mouth of the cave. " _He_ is the reason mages and templars now clash on the battlefield!"

Solas snorted as they rounded a corner in the dripping, dimly lit cave, careful to avoid broken shards of red lyrium strewn about the floor. "That's a matter of debate," he countered, catching Cassandra's angry glare in his peripheral vision, "but it's also unimportant, now."

"He only wanted to help the mages," Cole offered defensively from the back, not sounding the least bit breathless.

"Do you have any idea how to calm him down?" Lavellan asked Solas pointedly, worry in her tone as they came out into the light of day again.

The elf sighed and retrieved the staff strapped lightly to his back. "I can be fairly persuasive when need be - but, just as a precaution," he added grimly, "keep your barriers up."

**~oOo~**

His body was tossed haphazardly to the ground at Justice's feet, pushing the fractured splinters of bone deeper into his flesh. Varric was sure he would have coughed up blood if he'd had the air in his lungs to achieve such a reflex, but instead felt it dribble and pool on the snow under his cheek. Damn it, this wasn't the way he was meant to die; there were supposed to be scantily-clad women and kegs of ale everywhere from some decadent party full of glamorous smut and selfish indulgence. Getting offed by a preachy asshole with no self-control was way beyond demeaning.

He shook with laughter, the movement causing him extreme agony, and spots appeared in his vision. The pool of blood was expanding, his consciousness waning, and he heard the steady footsteps of his attacker leaving the scene, as though he wasn't even bothered to see the job was brought to completion, like Varric's life mattered so little to him to concern himself with sticking around and watching him take his last breath. _And why not_ , he thought to himself as he closed his eyes and felt tiredness wash over him, _I'm already dead, anyway..._

_"Nan!"_

It took immense effort, but Varric's brows shot up in an attempt to rouse himself and locate the source of the new voice. It only made him conscious of the stabbing pain as he tried to turn on the snowy grounds next to Vivienne. "Ah, shit," he croaked, hands immediately going to his ribcage in agony. Rolling on his back, the snow beneath him tinged a deep red, he pushed the circle mage laboriously onto her side and laid a hand on her face, gone ice cold.

He felt his consciousness wane again, but as he heard the clashing of steel and the roar of fire ripping through the air, he forced himself to turn on the ground and face the battle. He couldn't keep his eyes open long enough to make out who was winning, but that wasn't what mattered to him.

"No," Varric shouted gratingly to anyone who might hear, apparently stopping the fight somewhat in its tracks. "Hang on, I'd hoped... we could probably - do this peacefully..."

" _There can be no p- "_

"Ah, give it a rest, Blondie," he bit back with strained effort, "I'm trying to - save your sorry ass!" Varric opened his eyes as much as he could manage, cradling his broken hand like a babe in his arm. He couldn't focus, but barely made out the Seeker's figure as she watched the abomination suspiciously, everything gone as quiet as the grave around him. At first he assumed he'd lost his hearing, but indeed no one was moving or making a sound as they observed the possessed mage's unusual, frenzied search of the area.

Justice's glowing blue eyes focused on nothing, his head turning in every direction from which noise followed. Cassandra's gaze finally flitted to Varric on the ground in her confusion, whose eyes already rested on her own, a look of agony, exhaustion, and anxiety painted over his features. Slowly, Varric raised a bloodied, bare finger to his lips, his leather glove lost at some point during the struggle, his bloodshot eyes pleading for Cassandra's silence.

And then he saw it dawn on her: Justice was blind.

" _Hamin, ma falon,"_ Solas put his staff before him as he stepped through the gathering and approached the possessed apostate quietly, having assumed the role of negotiator that Varric had called upon him to fulfill. "Do you recognise my voice, Justice?"

Justice stood confused for a time, not comprehending why he should be familiar with anyone in this realm. Then he froze, his bright eyes flashing with recognition as they focused on the elf's inflection and tone. _"Noble and righteous one,"_ the spirit said, stunned at the unexpected reunion. _"Ally to mages and seeker of knowledge... Is it truly you, old friend?"_

Solas nodded solemnly, aware that all eyes had turned to him in shock at the revelation that they were personally acquainted, though Varric wasn't taken aback in the slightest. Nothing surprised him, anymore.

"There is no need to accelerate this unfortunate situation with more violence," he soothed the spirit gently. "Lay your burdens down... Perhaps we can go somewhere to discuss this... privately." Thinking quickly, Solas gently added, "Leave the body of this mortal and meet with me in the Fade, old friend. There we will not be overheard, and you may speak with me more freely."

 _"I was given unto this body willingly by the mage Anders, himself,"_ the enraged spirit refused. _"We will not surrender, not while injustice still reigns in this mad world! How can you simply ask us to abandon our purpose?! Are you one of them, now, that you would allow - "_

 _"Nan,"_ Solas repeated the Elvish word for vengeance harshly, catching Justice's attention. "What has become of you? This is unbecoming of one as noble as yourself. See reason, friend, and allow Anders to come forward."

Breathing heavily, the abomination raised his hands up, causing the others to flinch and raise their weapons in alarm, but instead the creature placed his palms on his temples and groaned in distress, almost as though he was fighting to remain in control. _"You do not command me...! My cause is just!"_

"That may very well be the case," the elf replied sympathetically. "Believe me, Justice, I take no great pleasure in this, myself... Cole, come here a moment."

Dumbfounded, Cole's eyes darted beneath the broad brim of his drooping hat as he stepped past Blackwall and Cassandra, making his way to Solas' side. "How can I help?"

Solas laid a hand on the boy's shoulder supportively and turned him to face Justice, who was now on his knees from his inner battle. "Justice and Compassion are in direct conflict by their very nature. One cannot possess both simultaneously."

Cassandra's eyes went wide and she shot a wary glance toward Varric, who was beginning to slip back into unconsciousness once more. Turning, she signalled Lavellan with a gesture, and the mage nodded, tapping her mana and casting a gentle healing spell over the two injured companions. As Varric was lifted from the ground, he felt his body rejuvenate, but not enough, and when his feet again met the red snow, he dropped to a knee, still struggling to breathe. Soundlessly making her way over, Cassandra knelt down and placed a hand on his back, and he patted her knee gently in reassurance.

"Is Cole going to possess Anders?" The Seeker whispered anxiously.

Varric shook his head in uncertainty. "Hell if I know," he answered, coughing and spitting up more blood as he wiped his mouth on a sleeve.

"Look at him, Cole," Solas implored the spirit. "Do you feel his suffering? Can you hear Anders' hurt calling to you?"

"Yes," Cole answered sadly, taking a knee and gently placing a hand on the abomination's shoulder. "He didn't mean for any of this to happen... He blames himself, buckles and breaks down, broken inside where he hides in his mind. Justice wanted to make it better... to avenge his loss, but it went wrong... The Taint hurt him. A Warden's curse, the Calling constant and crippling..."

"Help him, Cole," the elf urged him softly.

Varric and Cassandra watched as Cole lowered his head, now obscured by his headgear, the both of them holding their breath and each other as they waited for the boy to continue.

"Hawke doesn't _want_ you to hurt, Anders," Cole uttered as he sent calming waves over the glowing form before him. "Justice, Hawke doesn't want _you_ to hurt Anders... Let him go... _Forget..._ "

The blue light was extinguished almost miraculously, and the crumpled form of Anders fell on hands and knees on the icy ground, silent for a moment before pathetic weeping began to echo softly through the trees, his body racked with grief. "I'm sorry," Anders cried through his broken tears, pushing up on his knees and beginning to pivot and face the dwarf. "Varric, I'm so - "

An ice spike flew over Varric's head and planted itself in the middle of the man's chest, and his jaw dropped open in shock as Anders slowly keeled forward, hitting the ground and driving the spike further in with the forceful impact.

Solas whirled on his heel in outrage, glaring icily over their shoulders, and Cassandra watched in stunned horror as Vivienne casually stepped around them, her head raised high in satisfaction as she brushed her hands together as if washing them of blood.

"Vivienne! How _dare_ you?!" Solas roared, going to his knees and placing his hands on the mage lying face-down on the ground, a healing glow casting over the man and closing the wound.

She stepped carelessly over to them, looking down on the two and clicking her tongue. "No less than he deserves for all the death he's brought to this world," she spat coldly. Meeting Cole's wide, fearful eyes, she added, "Spirits are merely the larval forms of demons, given enough time. One should always bear that in mind when dealing with them."

"I can't believe you would just do that, Vivienne, after all the man's been through," Blackwall shook his head in disgust, glaring at the woman openly.

Vivienne eyed him up and down, a condescending smile gracing her full lips. "He'll live," she shrugged delicately, eyeing him with a pointed stare. "We cannot say the same for those poor children, though, can we, Rainier?"

Before the stunned warrior could muster an appropriate retort, she placed her hands on her headdress and readjusted it gently before making her way to the top entrance of the cave, clearly done with all of this for the day.

Varric took in the scene around him, watching forlornly as Solas turned Anders over and placed his long hands over his friend's frozen heart, using his magic to hopefully sustain him until they could relocate him to Suledin Keep for better treatment. He turned to Cassandra then, whose eyes searched him for wounds and then locked on his, concern written plainly on her scarred features.

"Dear Varric," he muttered ruefully to her, still fighting to breathe as the spots returned to his vision, "please learn to parry... Love, your innards."

Then, quite unexpectedly, his vision darkened completely as he fell into her arms and succumbed to a dreamless void.


	7. Riddles in the Dark

The water Cassandra had fetched from the cistern was so icy on her face that, for a moment as she gasped, she couldn't fathom how it was still in liquid form. She'd intended to splash herself a second time, but the frosty shock of it made her reconsider, instead picking up a towel and dabbing at her puckered skin. All she had wanted was to wake herself up, not inflict herself with frostbite. Well, and she was certainly awake, now.

Holding her arms about her middle to keep warm, she stepped out into the narrow hallways of the stone keep. Flaming sconces along the corridors licked at the ceiling, and the ice that had coated the surface for Maker knew how long slowly melted and dripped down to the floor. They'd had need to grit the walkways throughout due to the slippery surfaces, but she'd had no part in making such alterations. Her chilly boots crunched and sloshed through the long hall as she glanced from door to door, trying to determine if she'd remembered the directions correctly from Dorian. He would not mislead her purposefully - or would he, if only to get her out of his well-groomed hair for longer than she'd intended to be gone?

It was then that she heard the clicking of boots quickly approaching the four-way junction ahead, and she raised her chin to greet whom she assumed would be a recruit patrolling the hall. "Pardon me," she raised her voice to meet the stranger, "do you know which way I should take to reach - "

The Seeker gasped, her eyes narrowing in confusion. Surely she hadn't seen him correctly in the dim light. "Commander?" She breathed, utterly taken aback by his sudden appearance. "W-what -"

"Cassandra," he panted slightly, removing his lion's headdress and propping it under an arm as he pulled at the leather fingers of his riding gloves. "I came as soon as I heard."

"How long have you been here?" She blurted, her eyes wide with astonishment. Annoyed with herself at being caught off-guard, she strived to put on her best war face, frowning in seriousness after clearing her throat and lightly scratching at the deep scar just above her jawline. "No one even told me you were coming," her voice dropped an octave from when she'd last spoken, and she placed her hands upon her hips as she shifted her weight.

"I sent word ahead, but it probably hasn't arrived, yet. I ride fast and hard when the situation calls for it," he added, pocketing his gloves and waving a hand toward the pathway before him. "Er - is this the direction I should take to reach the dungeons?"

"Truthfully, I haven't the slightest idea," she admitted. "I was going to ask if you knew where the chapel was, but I didn't know you were - Well, _you,"_ she gestured toward his chest, sighing as she spun slowly on her heel. She was becoming lost, damn it.

Cullen turned back toward the way he had come and started back down the corridor. "I _think_ I passed a room with a few dozen candles lit, just a minute ago." Not glancing back to see if she followed, he took long strides forward, peering to his right as he tried in earnest to find the door for her. "I don't know what else it could possibly have been, if not a chapel - maybe a romantic evening for two, if not," he let out the breath of a laugh, his scarred lip turning up in mirth as he amused himself. "You've been here for days; knowing you, shouldn't you have this all memorised, by now?"

"Cullen," Cassandra pried, following in his shadow closely, "how much do you know of what happened here?"

He wheeled in surprise, cocking his head to the side as he studied her closely, his hazel eyes tracing her features as he took them in under better lighting. "Maker's Breath, Cassandra, when was the last time you caught any sleep? You look like... Well, like me, when you recruited me back in Kirkwall," he shrugged his admission, shuddering slightly at the memory as he continued his search. "We received word of what happened from one of Leliana's raven messengers - Or, not the raven itself, of course, but the note attached to its collar - you know what I meant. The note was brief: 'Anders, bomber of the Kirkwall Chantry, captured. In the dungeon at Keep, Empris du Lion. Possessed by a demon. Please advise.' Ah, here it is," he stopped suddenly before a half-open wet door, his hand on the frame as he used the other to swing the creaking wood wide open on its hinges.

"Thank you," she muttered, glancing around the empty room. There were no windows, but it was larger than the minuscule chapel in the garden back at Skyhold, at least. Pews had already been present in the room, but they had been rearranged to spread wider apart to accommodate the humans, since the keep had once been an elven fortress, as its name implied. She presumed this had once been a place of worship dedicated to the elven Creator Gods, though now it was being re-purposed to pray to the Maker and Andraste. Absently, she wondered how the Inquisitor had taken the alteration, if she even knew.

Leaning on the door frame, one leg crossed casually before the other, Cullen folded his arms over his chest plate. "I should pray before I face that insane man again, but I'm afraid I... don't know what I would ask the Maker for," he admitted, loosening a hand so he could rub the back of his neck uncertainly.

Nodding in understanding, Cassandra assured him, "I will say one for you, after I pray for Varric's soul."

"Oh, I'd appreciate - Wait, what? Varric?" Cullen's face instantly changed to one of concerned astonishment. "Maker's Breath, has something happened?" His eyes seemed to dart about in a mad rush to decipher her words, putting the fragmented pieces together in his mind.

"Oh, Cassandra... That's why Anders was here, of all places." Gulping hard, she watched his Adam's apple bob in his throat. "You're praying for Varric's soul...? Has he...?"

Cassandra blinked hard and looked away to avoid the deeply concerned expression. "No - at least... I don't think," she said firmly as she made her way to the second row of pews. "He's not conscious. He suffered severe wounds during the confrontation... I merely wish to make sure he is right with the Maker, if that time should come."

The room was soundless around her for a long pause after she had taken her seat, lowering her head in fatigue and worry. Unsure of what to say, Cullen uttered a quiet, "I see," before the awkward moment continued. "I'll be sure to stop by once I'm finished, and offer up a prayer for him, myself," he added, the shuffle of his boots indicating that he was about to make his move and leave her be.

"Thank you, Commander... I'm sure he would appreciate that," Cassandra said in finality, closing her eyes and clasping her hands in preparation.

Without another word, Cullen left her to her prayers, his boots echoing through the corridor and fading away as he went to confront the last man he ever thought he'd see again.

**~oOo~**

He felt like death itself.

But that only begged the question: was he dead?

He cracked one swollen eye open, the light of a hearth fire assaulting his senses and causing him to wince as he rolled his head away to face the ceiling of... wherever the hell this place was. By the sound of his muffled groan, the walls were solid stone and the room was relatively the size of a crate, the heat of the flames to his right slightly too warm, but tolerable, at least. If they weren't, there wasn't much he could do about it, anyway.

Varric attempted to sit up despite the soreness of his wounds, but within moments, a hand was on his chest, urging him gently to lay on the makeshift gurney. "If you so much as utter a word of protest, I swear on my mother's best dressing gown, I'll summon a demon to hold you down."

"Sparkler," he rasped considerably more than usual, forcing his eyes open despite their bruised puffiness, "don't make me shoot you..."

"I thought you might say that," Dorian nodded in vindication, brushing one side of his elegant mustache. "In anticipation of just such a threat, I had 'Bianca' removed from the room."

" _What?!_ Where is she?" He demanded, his voice cracking at the tail end of his question so his words were a mere whisper of what he'd intended. Maker, his throat was on fire.

The Vint looked up from his parchment then, eyebrows raised as he pursed his lips in thought. "Last I heard, Sera was having a go with it in the courtyard. She's been told she can't shoot bolts at the requisition officer's feet, anymore. She was starting to unnerve him every time she yelled, 'Arsed it again! Hold still,'" he informed Varric, suppressing the smirk that touched his lips.

"You _do_ realise she'll go mad with power if you let her hold onto Bianca for much longer?"

"Oh, I don't doubt she already has," Dorian admitted, dismissing the issue out of hand. "Close your eyes, now. What you need is more rest. If you keep trying to escape the infirmary, how am I ever going to sneak off and grab a sandwich?"

Relaxing himself against the gurney again, he grumbled, "You'd abandon your patient for a ham and cheese? Such dedication! I'll be sure to include that in my memoirs."

"Oh, that's gratitude for you," he quipped, ignoring Varric's protestations. "One broken nose, four fractured ribs, one compound fracture to the right middle finger - I'm sure that's symbolism of some kind - a collapsed lung, re-inflated by yours truly, bruised trachea, and two black eyes, all due to one hell of a fight, by the looks of it." He slapped the parchment down on a desk somewhere above Varric's head, coming around to sit in a simple wooden chair at his side. "I've got good news and bad news, old boy."

Swallowing hard against the inflammation in his throat, Varric coughed out a ragged laugh. "Give it to me straight, Sparkler. Am I gonna be drinking tea with Andraste tonight?"

"Not unless you have a fever dream. Ah, but dwarves don't dream! So no," Dorian shrugged, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair contentedly. "The bad news is you look like dog shit."

Varric closed his eyes, sighing lightly as he grinned. "I can live with that. What's the good news?"

Arching a single dark brow, Dorian smugly added, "The good news is no one will notice the difference."

"Ouch," the dwarf shook with silent laughter. "Sparkler, your bedside manner is impeccable. Never change."

Nodding, Dorian smiled, "I do try, Varric."

"And it shows." He opened his eyes with immense effort, to the point that they watered profusely beneath his swollen lids. "I'm getting too old for this shit," he groaned, forcing himself to turn on the gurney to face his friend. "Fix my eyes at least, will ya? I can barely see out of these slits in my face."

Pursing his lips, Dorian shook his head slowly, a pensive finger upon his chin. "Hmm, Vivienne and I conferred on that this morning. She advised that it may be unwise to use magic on them until we can determine whether you've detached a retina or two. I removed the teabags from your lids just before you woke, intending to replace them with fresh ones, actually."

"Well, I can _see_ you - mostly, except for all this damned swelling! Come on, Sparkler, help a guy out. I'm dying here."

"No, you're not, but all right, you whingy bastard. Hold still." Dorian stood and placed his hands on either side of Varric's head to straighten him, moving a single hand over his friend's eyes and sending a cooling sensation over his beaten face. The tissue around his sockets cooled exponentially, the scent of mint oddly emanating from the spell. When at last the hand left his skin, Varric's eyes opened with such ease that he had to shut them again due to the amount of light from the fireplace.

Grimacing, Dorian lowered himself to the seat once more and studied the archer critically. "Still bruised like mad," he informed him with a sigh, "but you don't look as hellish, at the _very_ least."

Managing a smirk, Varric blinked freely for the first time, the relief evident in his broken voice as he admitted, "Yeah, that's much better, thanks... It was nice of you to look after me. You didn't have to - could have just left me to the healers and gone about your business, but I appreciate you tending to me like this."

"Oh, pish. It was nothing, really," Dorian hushed him readily, locating a bound stack of parchment by the foot of his chair and bending to retrieve it. "I have a talent for raising the dead, it seems, but as much as I'd like to take full credit for your survival, I wasn't alone in my efforts. Vivienne and I have been taking it in shifts since you were transported to Suledin Keep, two days ago."

 _"Two - "_ Varric nearly shot up out of the cot, but the tenderness of his wounds forced him back down before Dorian could even move to intervene. "Well, shit," he coughed, holding a splinted hand over his ribcage, "I was worse off than I thought."

"Indeed," the man answered absently, thumbing through the pages in his hands. "But there was one person in particular whom we couldn't manage to pry from this chair until about an hour ago."

Turning his head quizzically, Varric eyed the man steadily, his mind racing. "Who? Oh wait, was it Tiny?" He glanced away, rationalising this to himself. "I owe him a few silvers from our last game of Wicked Grace... Probably wanted to make sure he still got paid," he laughed to himself ruefully.

Not taking his eyes from his newfound reading material, Dorian shook his head slowly. "He _did_ carry you back to the keep along with the, eh," his eyes shot up in indecision momentarily before he continued, "friendly chap who gave you all those love slaps... But alas, no, Bull hasn't been spending every _waking_ hour at your side."

His memory came back in a torrential flood at mention of the old Kirkwall associate, his stomach dropping to the floor as a pit of anxiety solidified in his belly. "Ah... Was it... Blondie, then?"

Dorian's brow furrowed in confusion for a few seconds before realisation finally dawned on him. "Oh, is that the little nickname you gave him? Anders, they said his name was. I'd heard quite a bit about him, though judging from the tales, I somehow assumed he'd be taller." Coming back to himself, he cleared his throat and pursed his lips. "No, I'm afraid Anders is... otherwise indisposed in the lower dungeons, at present."

Wrinkling his brow in remorse, Varric lowered his head back against the gurney roughly and let out a long sigh that hurt both lungs and throat to elicit. "Well, I'm at a loss, then," he gave up, staring at the stone ceiling before his eyes. He hated being surrounded by all this claustrophobic stone. It reminded him too much of his parents' house.

Dorian's chair grated against the floor as he stood up in exasperation, closing the parchments in hand. "Come now, Varric, you can't possibly be _this_ deep in denial," he bit disdainfully, laying the pages on his patient's stomach and ignoring the grunt that followed.

Glancing down, Varric carefully took hold of the heavy pages and raised the title page to his aching nose, recognising it almost instantly. "...Huh," he breathed, completely stunned. _Swords and Shields: Chapter Fifteen,_ it read in his own script. _By Varric Tethras. Just a rough draft. It needs work, I know - I'll get around to it, eventually._

"'Huh', indeed, you poor, blind fool," Dorian shook his head as he fed the flames with more dry wood.

Varric winced, thinking back on the two days he'd spend unconscious and wounded, all the while the woman at his side likely wringing her hands and rushing around to fetch needed items for healing and medicinal purposes. "Hey, you can't blame me for my blindness when you didn't fix my eyes until I begged you to."

Dorian stood up straight, placing his hands on his hips and adopting a stern look over his features. _"Rest,"_ he reminded the dwarf with a glare.

"Where is she now?" He asked pointedly, ignoring the order given in turn.

For a moment, Dorian looked as though he wouldn't answer the question, knowing where it may likely lead, but finally relenting under the gaze of the pleading, bloodshot eyes, the mage rolled his eyes and smoothed his robe patiently. "She took a moment to clean herself up and pay a visit to the little chapel they set up downstairs."

Frowning, Varric propped himself up on an elbow. "What for?" He wondered, rubbing at his pained neck with his good hand.

Dorian shot him a sidelong glance, wary of where this line of questioning was headed. "To pray," he muttered, narrowing his eyes critically.

Varric hesitated for the span of a breath before he nodded in acknowledgement and looked down at his bare feet. "Get me up," he stated plainly.

"Oh, no you don't," Dorian cried, moving swiftly to the foot of the gurney. He pinned the stout legs down as Varric struggled to rise, despite his interference. "Don't make me follow through on the demon threat - I'll have to sit through another one of Solas' inane lectures about spirits and purposes, again! Not only _that,_ but Vivienne will have my head on a pike and place it on the battlements as a warning!"

"So tell her you couldn't stop me," he argued in annoyance, lowering one bare foot to the ground and sucking air through his teeth at the pain the movement caused. "Tell her I disarmed you and shot you with your own staff."

"That's not possible! Staves can only fire when a mage's mana makes contact with the rune - Stop struggling!"

"Sparkler, I don't care what you tell Iron Lady; I'm going. Now, are you gonna help me or not?"

Straightening, Dorian sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair absently, then brushed at it gently to remedy any displacement he'd caused in his frustration. _"Fine,"_ he relented, throwing his hands up and darting his eyes about the room, "but take these crutches. If you insist on being uncooperative, you could at _least_ take care not to reverse all of my hard work." He retrieved a pair of wooden crutches propped against the far wall, handing them to the injured man. "Here. I made sure to specify your height to the woodsmith so as to get an accurate fit."

Hurriedly placing the pads beneath his arms and gripping the handles, Varric carefully limped around the gurney. "Thanks, Sparkler, I owe you one," he sighed gratefully, pausing at the door and waiting for Dorian to open it for him.

Scoffing, Dorian stepped forward, pulling the door open and gesturing him through. "You owe me _six,_ by my count," he added disapprovingly, clicking his tongue as he watched Varric limp away. He leaned against the door frame with a bare shoulder and crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head and closing his eyes.

"And _don't_ let Vivienne see you," he shouted tiredly, resting his temple against the wood and sighing in defeat, completely exhausted.

"Don't let me see what, my dear?"

Dorian's eyes shot open as he jerked in alarm, spotting her standing off to his left with a silverite tray of food for their erstwhile patient, though by the look on her face, it was apparent she had seen everything.

 _"Shit,"_ he hissed, purposefully hitting his head against the frame and throwing up a hand in utter disgust. "Give me that damned sandwich. Andraste's sake, Vivienne, I nearly pissed myself," he grumbled, snatching it up from the tray and ignoring her pointed stare of contempt. Then he took one defiant bite and disappeared back through the doorway, slamming it shut behind him.

**~oOo~**

"What the hell is this, some kind of elven labyrinth?" Varric grumbled to himself, limping painfully on his right foot. He probably shouldn't have traded his crutches with Buttercup to get Bianca back. As much relief as he now felt having her strapped to him yet again, she put added weight on his tender ribs and shoulders, and his ankle clearly wasn't putting up with anymore of his crap.

Pressing his mouth tightly shut to avoid the grunt of pain on the tip of his tongue, he bit the inside of his lower lip and stepped forward again, a hand braced against the wall for support. He wouldn't dare say it aloud, but Sparkler had most likely been right about needing rest; he was going to have to take a seat and wait for the Seeker to find him - if Varric didn't get to her, first.

After taking in a few hissing breaths between his teeth, he stilled and forced himself to listen intently to the silence behind the wall sconces' whispered burning. He couldn't quite make it out, but there was something else about that sound that wasn't exactly the roar of a fire. A voice was under it, soft and distant, he was almost certain... But in what direction?

It was getting creepier down here, and he hated to admit it, but it was during times like these that he wished he'd actually inherited just a drop of stone sense. At least he'd be able to get out of here faster, if that was how it worked. The corridors all looked the same, each hallway an expanse that faded into perpetual darkness around every corner of -

"Varric."

 _"Holy - "_ The dwarf spun around and, overestimating his abilities, stumbled against the wall and slid down in a ridiculous pratfall, thanks to the failure of his sore ankle to keep up with his movements. A stream of obscenities escaped his lips so quickly that he had to mentally force himself to stop as a pale hand reached out to pull him upright again.

" _Kid_ ," Varric sighed, his heart in his thick throat, "you can't _do_ that to a guy! I thought you were a ghost..." On his feet once more, he placed a hand on his chest hair, the other bracing against his knee as he bent forward to steady his nerves.

"I'm not a ghost," Cole mumbled honestly, slight concern edging into his voice. "They used to call me Ghost of the Spire, but not anymore... Not after Lambert's Litany... I thought you needed help, so I came to calm you."

"Well, you had the exact opposite effect. I got lost, that's all. It's a tad dark down here... Maybe I'm still disoriented from the past couple of days." He stood to his full, stout height and gestured down the hallway. "So, which way to that... chapel thing?"

The spirit boy stood unnervingly still, a shadow cast over his face from his dingy hat. "You seek her, the Seeker, to speak to her. Not knowing where it's all going, so much time spent winding, minding the blind... But seek, and you shall find."

"Yep." This place was already giving him the creeps without the Kid adding to the atmosphere with his breathy spirit-talk. He had to keep his answers short to discourage him from engaging further.

"No, you don't understand," Cole interjected, clearly sensing that he'd unintentionally alienated his friend.

Varric nodded, a sarcastic smirk coming back to his mouth as he turned away and limped off in a random direction. _Anywhere but here_. "That we can agree on, Kid."

Startled that Varric was actually walking away from the conversation, Cole stumbled after him, his brow furrowing as he tried to get through to the dwarf. "She carries the Canticle of Trials on her tongue, tries to talk through cold tears. Did she make her Maker forsake her?"

Turning slowly so as not to wrench his foot again, he lifted one flabbergasted brow and shrugged his shoulders in bemusement at the young man. "Seriously, we're going to have to work on your communication skills, or lack thereof."

Cole stared at him for a long moment, clearly unsure of how to express himself. "Why do you make the stories for her?"

He'd spoken so plainly that Varric had to repeat the question in his mind to be sure he'd heard it correctly. "Because I like writing," Varric answered simply in return, his narrowed eyes locked on the face covered in shadow.

"But that's not _why_ you do it," Cole shook his head. "Putting pen to paper and making words play - you don't have to do it for her, but you do it anyway. Because you like writing, and she devours your words - just like Josephine devours the secret sweets she keeps at the bottom drawer in her desk. The Seeker's _your_ secret... And you want to keep her, always a secret, _your_ Seeker, to see her smile as only you can make her, _Maker, she's lovely when she's not strangling me_ -"

"Kid, I swear, I don't know what the _hell_ you're talking about," Varric snapped, rubbing his good hand over his bruised and flushed face.

Cole straightened, letting the thoughts and emotions that tugged at him insistently fall by the wayside. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered in uncertainty, "I thought that you..."

Closing his eyes, Varric held his hands up apologetically. "I didn't mean to bark at you like that. I'm sorry, too... Okay? Let's just... Yeah, let's just keep that whole thing between us, Kid."

"Yes," Cole nodded his agreement tentatively. "You should tell her, though. She feels the same."

His heart skipping a beat at the spirit's words, Varric's eyes shot up to meet Cole, whom pointed assuredly in the opposite direction the archer had taken. "Go that way," he breathed. "The second left. Then the seventh door to the right. You'll hear her heart before you get there. Now, I find Justice."

"Sure," Varric's shaky voice managed to escape his throat as he peered down the hallway. "Thanks, Kid, but what did you mean when you said -"

By the time he had turned to face the boy again, his words dried up on his tongue. The corridor was empty, and Cole was gone, lost once more to the shadows.

Varric scoffed softly, _"'No,_ I'm not a _ghost'_ , the Kid says, 'I just act, sound, appear, and vanish _exactly_ like a ghost, but I _swear_ I'm not a ghost!'" He sighed before continuing in the direction Cole had indicated, one laborious step at a time. "Could have fooled me..."

After a solid minute of apparently exploring every groove of the wall's stone surface, he began to wonder whether he was closer to the truth with his sarcasm than he first realised. Cole may have thought he wasn't a real ghost, but his odd words had been pretty haunting, banging around inside Varric's head for all the time it took to cross from his end of the hall to the other, where he found himself standing silently at a four-way junction. Replaying Cole's analytical alliterations in his mind had his mouth drying up like cotton fresh from a clothesline, and he stood in place, a look of utter confusion and worry overtaking him. There couldn't be any truth to what the Kid had said. It just wasn't _possible_...

And yet it nagged at him, pecking at his brain persistently. Had he discovered something buried in his subconscious that Varric had never knowingly, openly acknowledged before? Or was the spirit planting these ideas in his head for, say, shits and giggles? This whole spirit-like transformation was alien to him; Varric was a _people_ person, not some kind of spiritual medium. The only spirit he'd ever held extended conversations with was Justice, and none of those experiences had ever been pleasant - in fact, he shuddered to think of them now. Everything he'd ever heard about spirits suggested they were tricky bastards, so what if that was just what Cole was doing, what with his new nature realised?

But - and this was much worse to consider - what if it wasn't?

The Kid could have just pointed him in the right direction without any further instructions, and even then, he would have easily figured out where the chapel was for himself simply by following the now-obvious murmurings coming from the path to his left. A door up ahead was left ajar, the light of the glimmering candles painting the opposite stone wall in gold. Her harsh Nevarran accent held a different quality now, the voice so soft-spoken that, had he not already known it was her, he would have second-guessed himself.

"...In the long hours of the night, When hope has abandoned me, I still see the stars and know Your Light remains... I have heard the sound, A song in the stillness, The echo of Your voice, Calling creation to wake from its slumber..."

It wasn't right to eavesdrop on her prayers like this, even if she was just reciting hymns. He'd probably missed all the juicy stuff already, anyway; this was more likely to be something she did to reaffirm her faith. Still, though, this was private. He shouldn't keep standing in the shadows, peering into the light in an attempt to get a glimpse of her dark hair.

"How can we know You?" Cassandra's voice trembled unexpectedly, "In the turning of the seasons, in life and d-death... In the empty space where our hearts Hunger for a forgotten face...? You have walked beside me, down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others Have forsaken me..."

His brow furrowed in consternation at the tremor in her recitation, and his mouth dropped open as he looked upward, as though the Maker himself would be staring down at him and giving Varric a tell-tale nod that screamed, "You know damn well why she chose this hymn." He always imagined the Maker would be a bit sassy. _Was that blasphemy... Sass-phemy?_

Shaking his head back to the present, he stepped closer to the entry soundlessly, placing his hand on the door frame and gripping it for support, waiting for the right moment to make himself known while inching into the warm confines of the spacious room. The Seeker was sitting in the second pew, her arms laid on the row in front of her as she slumped forward on her clasped hands. She was exhausted, her frame weighted down by the desire to sleep, but her soul was even heavier with the desperate need to pray... For _him_.

That still seemed impossible, given every biting, venomous dig they'd uttered, baring and swiping their claws whenever the other had left themselves open for ridicule... And yet he slowly recalled to mind the look on her face before he'd fallen unconscious that day. Astonishment, worry, even fear had flashed across her eyes before he fell into her arms. To know that, since that moment, she hadn't left his side... _Wow,_ he thought, studying her in a new, intriguing light, _a woman like that is not someone you meet every day..._ _Oh, man,_ _the guys are never gonna let me live it down if this gets out._

...But who said it had to get out...? The Kid had already summed it up for him: _The Seeker's your secret..._ What if this - whatever it was - was something he might be willing to explore, but not outright tell her about, yet? Hell, he could imagine her reaction if he simply spoke plainly on the matter, and he wasn't interested in creating more work for Sparkler to patch up. No, it would have to be more subtle, more of a suggestion put forward in the same way it was presented to him...

Or, this was all crazy talk brought on by his recent coma. Maybe Justice hit him a little too hard.

"I have faced armies With You as my shield, And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing Can break me except Your absence..."

Varric swallowed hard against the dryness of his throat and walked as nonchalantly as he could toward the end of her row. "When I have lost all else," his raspy tone quoted verse seven, catching her by complete surprise, "when my eyes fail me And the taste of blood fills my mouth... then In the pounding of my heart I hear the glory of creation."

Cassandra stared at him disbelievingly for a long moment as he carefully swung Bianca over his shoulder and propped her against the pew, blinking several times in quick succession to be certain of what she saw. When she made to rise, Varric held up a bandaged hand and sidled over, settling on the bench beside her not two feet away. " _Varric_ ," she gasped, placing a hand over her mouth to control herself. It was unlike her to be this emotional, but he'd caught her in a vulnerable moment, and the shock she must have felt at seeing him walking again must have been great.

"I am... glad to see you pulled through..." Lowering her eyes to her lap, she placed her hands on her thighs and laced her fingers together, a single tear escaping her disciplined boundaries.

Oh, Maker help him, he'd felt something for her, that time.

As much as he would have liked to lean back from the shock of his realisation, the tenderness of his wounds prevented such a move, so he instead pressed his rigid back against the solid wood. "You have grieved as I have," he continued the hymn from memory, keeping his bruised eyes cast downward. "You, who made worlds out of nothing. We are alike in sorrow, sculptor and clay, Comforting each other in our art..." When she glanced over to him curiously, he raised his face to meet hers in the dim light. "Do not grieve for me, Maker of All. Though all others may forget You, Your name is etched into my every step... I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself..."

Her mouth opened ever so slightly as he spoke, brows narrowing as she studied him. Though it was only a recitation, words written to help find meaning in the Maker during dark times, there was a hidden note she was catching behind his stanzas. She was cleverer than he previously gave her credit for. He sat paralysed, wondering what she would do with what she'd detected.

"Maker," the Seeker started, staring at him so intensely that his eyes widened almost imperceptibly, "though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, ...no man can tear usunder."

Smiling gently, he turned toward her, resting his elbow on the back of the seat and propping his head against a hand. "Who knows me as you do...? You have been there since before my first breath. You have seen me when no other would recognise my face," he chuckled, suddenly recalling the day she'd found him, hiding in plain sight, and arrested him to begin her interrogation. She grinned as well, turning her face away to disguise the fact that she was also trying not to laugh. In all seriousness, he added, "You composed the cadence of my heart."

Elbows propped upon her knees, she sighed and leaned forward, staring ahead at the strange statue on the altar surrounded by Chantry candles. "Through blinding mist, I climb A sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base Endlessly far beneath my feet. The Maker is the rock to which I cling..."

She turned to him, then, mirroring his lounging position as her eyes travelled over his face. "You look like dog shit," she spoke plainly, her observation echoing off the stone around them.

Varric sighed and lifted a testing hand to his eye, wary of the tender bruising. "I don't quite remember that stanza," he muttered sarcastically, eyes glittering in the candlelight. "Yeah, Sparkler told me when I woke up... He also said nobody would notice the difference, though."

Cassandra cleared her throat gently and faced the front again, hiding the blush spreading over her bronze cheeks. "I noticed," she admitted quietly, keeping her eyes well and truly averted.

A warm glow penetrated Varric at sight of her desperate attempt to pretend everything was perfectly normal, and he fought against the rising tide of a soft smile. "Thanks, Seeker," was all he breathed in response, watching the light of dozens of candles play invitingly across her breathtaking features... Features he'd never taken notice of before, until now... At least, not in this way...

This... was going to be trouble.

_Well... Shit._


	8. Perverting the Course of Justice

Finding his way through the dimly-lit, winding hallways, Commander Cullen Rutherford eventually discovered a large wooden door in an archway, bars covering the small window of the door. His confidence swelled, a gut instinct telling him that this had to be the place. Stealing a glance through the iron bars, he noted long rows of cells extending down either end with a wide walkway running the length of the dungeon, the only light pooling in from grated skylights in the stone ceiling, where melting snow dripped into drains at the centre of the floor. The door creaked noisily as he pulled the handle wide and, heart now racing in his chest, he stepped through, the click of his riding boots echoing off the stone around him.

Cullen nodded to the guards flanking the door as he set his gloves and helmet down on the desk to his right. They saluted respectfully upon his entrance, and he waved them away reassuringly as he pulled his cloak closer about his neck to stave off the cold. The skylights left the whole place markedly chilly, the sun rays only illuminating the bleak, grey surroundings. It was an entirely appropriate setting for breaking the spirit of a prisoner, ironically enough. Were he more ruthless, he'd be inclined to make good use of this dungeon on behalf of the Inquisition, but he put such thoughts out of mind for now.

Stirring in his chair against the back wall, Solas rose and moved calmly toward him, meeting the Commander at a safe distance from the occupied cell. "Commander," Solas greeted him in his usual fashion, inclining his hairless head slightly out of respect of his position. "I was not expecting anyone from Skyhold for another day, but it is just as well you arrived quickly."

"Solas," Cullen nodded, returning the casual greeting. "How's the prisoner faring?"

"He's stabilised. Vivienne's ice spike to the chest nearly killed him outright," he complained readily, "but I was able to close the wound before he haemorrhaged." Given other circumstances, he may have taken pride in his work, but he seemed more aggravated that his efforts were necessary in the first place.

Cullen pursed his lips, stating grimly, "I have half a mind to say you ought to have let the man die, but I suppose he may yet hold valuable information we can extract."

"That is unlikely," Solas shook his head, turning to look at the pathetic man in chains, who huddled in the corner of the dank and filthy cell. In a quieter tone, the elf muttered, "He cannot recall much of what has happened, nor how he came to be in this place. If you were curious for any information regarding the Mage Rebellion, I've learned that Anders was forced under mounting pressure from other apostates to leave the movement not long after the uprising began in the Free Marches. Regardless of the tensions leading up to Kirkwall, they blamed Anders alone for their struggles... Apparently, they were under the false impression that their situation was perfect until he came along and made living in the Circles literally impossible." Solas sounded as though he had a great deal of sympathy for Anders, almost as if he could relate on some level.

Surprised, Cullen crossed his arms over his chest plate and leaned closer to speak in confidence. "He's been talking to you? I presumed it would be difficult to get anything out of him. How did you manage that?"

Solas' narrow blue eyes met the Commander's humbly. "This man trusts me... I have been building a rapport with him as a fellow apostate and an impartial confidant, and my familiarity with spirits swiftly won him over. Not to mention," he added disdainfully, "that Cole and I are the only ones whom have bothered to speak to him, never mind bring him food and water daily, or treat his injuries. Not one healer has descended into these dungeons to aid him - and your soldiers haven't been helpful in that regard, either, Commander. Anders may be a prisoner of the Inquisition, and thoroughly disliked, but he is our responsibility. I'd appreciate more cooperation from your men, unless ensuring the accused survives until his trial is not a priority we uphold."

He wasn't fond of the elven man telling him how to do his job, but Solas did have a point. "All right. I'll have a word with my men on my way out. You shouldn't have any more trouble getting what you need after that."

"Thank you, Commander," Solas nodded gratefully. "I look forward to continuing some of my normal duties." His brows raised questioningly, he gestured forward, inviting Cullen to speak with the shackled mage.

Cullen swallowed hard and attempted to wipe the stern look from his face, but as he approached the cell door, his fists clenched at his sides, eyes glaring hard into the dark corner where the man sat with his knees up, his face buried in crossed arms.

"Hello, Anders," he said steadily, biting his tongue to keep himself from lashing out. "Long time no see... Not for lack of trying, though."

Anders' head raised at the new, yet familiar voice, and he peered out at him warily with swollen lids. Then his eyes widened in recognition, and he rose slowly to his feet, the iron chains rattling as he slowly stepped toward the centre of his cell. "Knight-Captain Cullen...? Is that you?"

"It's Commander, now, actually," Cullen corrected levelly.

"Yes, I see that... Moving up in the world." Anders attempted to smile, but failed to hold the expression for long. "...Good for you."

Though he wanted to take that last remark as sarcasm, Cullen reluctantly admitted to himself that the mage was being sincere. Anders looked anguished, not only from his healing wound, but from invisible hurts deep within that ate at him, and turmoil seemed to be permanently etched into his long, pale face, no matter what expression he attempted to convey. Still, given everything Kirkwall had been through in the aftermath of this man's despicable actions, Cullen wasn't exactly moved to sympathy.

"Is Varric all right?" Anders asked, his voice cracking and shaking as he averted his gaze to the damp floor.

He let the mage stew in that for a moment, wanting him to feel the heavy weight of guilt fully on his shoulders. After a time he replied, "Seeker Cassandra has informed me that he's in bad shape. Whether Varric will pull through or not is anyone's guess, right now." Glaring, Cullen placed a hand on his hip and began to slowly pace the length of the cell, resembling the lion he so often emulated through his helmet. "For your sake _and_ his, you had better hope he survives, or that charge will be nigh on impossible for the Inquisitor to pardon."

Closing his tired eyes, Anders lowered his head in utter shame, making his way to the wall and sliding down until he hit the floor, burying his drawn face in his hands. "Oh, _Maker,_ what have I done...?"

"Do I really need to spell it out for you?!" He spat incredulously, beginning to lose his cool. "Perhaps I should have a comprehensive list drawn up for you to skim through while you're in there! It's _doubtful_ you'd get through it all in one sitting!"

Anders stared at the iron around his wrists, unable or unwilling to respond to the fury directed toward him.

 _This is totally unlike him,_ Cullen thought fretfully. It usually took only the slightest hint of dissent for Anders to insert himself and break into a self-righteous political rant. Instead, Cullen received absolutely nothing in reply, not even the smallest glare of indignation. Still, he wanted to get a rise out of the man, if only to release the years of bitterness over this issue that had built up within him. "I personally saw to the reconstruction of Kirkwall along with Captain Vallen. My hands pulled blackened body parts from the smoking rubble of the Chantry. Innocent civilians died in the chaos you left in your wake, and now you show up out of nowhere - after years of us trying to repair the damage you've done - to attempt a murder on a man whose only crime was trying to clean up your mess?!"

Again, he received no response; not even a courtesy glance his way in acknowledgement of what was said, which only riled Cullen further. "You face the gallows, and the only compensation I get for my long journey on horseback is your _silence?_ I suggest you start talking, Anders, before I do what should have been done to you long ago - and earn myself a bloody medal in the process!"

Solas stepped forward, standing before the bars and forcing Cullen to halt his pacing. "My friend," he urged Anders gently, "if you have anything to say in defence of your actions, do so to the Commander, now."

The prisoner didn't raise his eyes, pulling his knees close to his chest once more and resting his arms there, hiding his mournful tears. "There is nothing I can say," he muttered forlornly. "I can't change what I have done, past or present... I will await the Inquisitor's judgement of my crimes."

At his words of quiet resignation, Cullen could not hide the shock on his face effectively, instead wearing it plainly, since no one was bothering to look his way in the first place. Anders wasn't going to at least put up a fight? His gut knotting anxiously, Cullen sensed something was going on to which he was not yet privy.

Solas' eyes fixed on the defeated man, a worry line creasing between his brows. "Anders, do not throw your life away when you have a perfectly reasonable explanation for - "

"Solas," Anders interrupted, not meeting his eyes, "please, just let me go... The day I lost Hawke was the day I lost all control of myself, possibly forever. If an innocent suffers at my hand, it no longer matters who controls it, myself or Justice... So it's over, now. I'm a goner, and I know it..." He paused, letting out a level breath before finishing quietly, "I took Justice within myself, and I corrupted him with my anger. Anything he does as Vengeance is ultimately my fault... I can't pin any of these horrors solely on Justice any more than I can pin them on the Dread Wolf."

Cullen watched out of the corner of his vision as Solas silently held his breath and froze in place, momentarily falling into silence. When Anders slowly raised his face to meet the elf's calculating eyes, they stared intensely at one another, something strange and unspoken passing between them.

Swallowing hard, Solas stepped forward and gripped a bar in his fist, either for emphasis of his point or physical support, but Cullen couldn't quite decipher which. "If it is truly your intention to submit, my friend," he replied breathlessly, "then I cannot stop you from surrendering, but I must beg you to reconsider... Find the strength within yourself to endure this, in spite of the recent tragedies you've suffered... It can be done, I assure you."

After a long moment of silence, the only sound that of the slow dripping of melting snow through the open skylights, Anders rose to his bare feet and stood before the two men, his face that of someone whom looked like he hadn't slept soundly in months. "Garrett had debated long and hard about going to the Inquisition for help, because the Calling had brought me to the brink," his voice trembled mournfully. "When a letter came from Varric regarding Corypheus, we both knew then that it was unavoidable, that he would have to go away to put things right... He told me he had to do something to save me, to save Bethany, the Wardens... You should have seen how hopeful Garrett was the night he set out to put an end to it. He kissed me goodbye one last time as I lay writhing in my own insanity, and he swore on his mother's grave that he would come back to me... A few weeks later, the Calling just stopped altogether... And another week of hellish nightmares passed by before I finally found out why, when Varric's letter arrived home instead of him..."

Silent tears of insurmountable grief poured out as he turned away, shoulders sinking in defeat as he walked back to the far corner of the dark cell. He lowered himself down, leaning his side against the far wall, a heavily-bearded cheek pressed to the cool stone as he stared ahead, unable to focus on anything but his unrelenting devastation. "Please," he begged them, his voice cracking desolately, "just let me die..."

His throat closing involuntarily, the Commander turned his head away, heart aching in his chest. He despised that Anders had actually made him feel remorse for his situation, and he rubbed roughly at the back of his neck, unsure of how to respond to the man whom had bared his broken soul to them. The fact that the criminal preferred a death sentence after the loss of his partner robbed Cullen of any vindictive ideas of retribution he might have entertained, however briefly.

"I will do my best to see that your sentence is carried out quickly and mercifully," Cullen offered reluctantly, looking over Anders sadly one last time as Solas slid down the bars and sat hard on his knees, utterly stunned. Turning to leave, he paused in his slow steps, adding a weak and hollow, "And I am... sorry for your loss."

The distraught mage made no acknowledgement that he'd heard anything at all and, shaking his head, Cullen cleared his throat and made his way to the door, retrieving his gloves and helmet before turning an icy glare on his recruits. "You two will make certain that Solas is afforded every courtesy in whatever he requires for the prisoner. If I hear otherwise again, I will have you shovelling horse manure until the Breach is sealed and Corypheus lies dead, so that when your future children ask where you were on the day the world was saved from total destruction, you'll be forced to tell them that you were up to your neck in shit in the stables. Do I make myself clear?"

The threat was well-placed, and the recruits immediately straightened, their eyes wide with fear. "Yes, ser," they both chimed in as one, saluting stiffly.

"Good," he uttered as he pushed the door open and stepped out into the darkness of the corridor.

He made it to the end of the hall before the door burst open again and Solas appeared, instantly walking toward Cullen with a look of distress painted over his features. "Commander, I _cannot_ let him plead to this," his raised voice objected forcefully. "There is an entirely valid reason Anders lost control of the spirit of Justice, but he refuses to tell anyone else, thinking it better to _die_ than live with what he knows."

Taken aback by the apostate's passionate insistence, he turned to face him under the light of the burning sconce, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. "I thought Anders was weakened and Justice took hold in order to avenge Hawke's death for him."

"No, Cullen," Solas winced, looking toward the dungeon briefly before turning back and locking eyes with him. "It's far worse than we could have imagined."

**~oOo~**

"So, I've gotta be honest: I'm touched, Seeker. Really, I didn't know you cared! I never pictured you moonlighting as a guardian angel."

Cassandra crossed her arms and leaned against the pew, staring at the unusual statue partially covered in twisted vines. "My presence with you was not constant, though Dorian may have acted like it was, but..."

"But it wasn't non-existent, either. Admit it, Seeker: you finally found my roguish charm irresistible, and I wasn't even trying," he smirked, cautiously taking a deep breath to avoid flinching. "I know, I know, I'm practically oozing sensuality. It's a heavy burden, but it's mine to bear."

"Ugh," she scoffed, rubbing at a temple in exasperation. " _Something_ was oozing, that much I can confirm."

"I'm just saying, you usually can't stand my company for longer than two _minutes_ , let alone _days."_

"It helped considerably that you were not conscious."

Varric chuckled at that, the sound only vaguely reminiscent of his typical laughter, now merely a faint wheezing noise that squeezed out of his bruised throat. "So, what the hell did you do with yourself?"

She thought back, sighing as she listed the ways in which she kept herself busy. "Let me see... I fed the fire to keep the room comfortably warm... I restrained you while Vivienne set your broken bones... I ground a few poultices for Dorian to apply under your bandages... I took the night shift so they could rest... There's more, I'm sure, but I can't remember. Much of this is hazy."

"Sheesh," he commented dryly, slowly shaking his head as he marvelled. "When did you have time to sleep?"

"I didn't, for the most part," she admitted, rubbing her eyes tiredly. "That's why it's all so hazy. I managed to steal a few moments from time to time, but nothing substantial."

"You haven't _slept?!"_  he choked, thoroughly amazed. Sitting back, he raised his brows and shrugged as much as he was able. "I don't know what to say, Seeker, I - I'm speechless!"

Cassandra shook her head humbly. "I would have done the same for any member of our team," she informed him with all modesty.

"Really?" He wondered a touch too dubiously.

Her cheeks flushing red, Cassandra turned her gaze on him and appeared affronted by his tone of voice. "Of course! You did not think you were _special_ to me, did you?"

Varric wheezed out another brief chuckle, running a hand over his hair and tucking stray locks behind his ears. "As if you ever gave me that impression! So, what, you drank coffee by the kettle and read my book to stay awake?"

Smiling to herself, Cassandra nodded and relented after a moment's reluctance. "Yes. I actually read aloud when I felt myself close to dozing off."

Grinning from ear to ear, Varric tilted his head and asked teasingly, "Come on, I need details! Did you put on different voices for everyone?"

"I may have... Why?" The Seeker panicked inwardly, turning a wary glare on him. "Could you hear anything?"

"Sadly, no," he sighed glumly, the smile only slightly fading from his lips. "That's a damn shame, too. It would've been interesting to hear how you think my characters speak. But that last one was a short chapter; it wouldn't have lasted you long."

"It didn't... I spent the rest of my time asking you questions you could not answer," she replied hesitantly, her fingers now fidgeting as she fought to steady her nerves.

Varric noticed her unease and thought to lift her spirits with a small jest. "So the usual, then," he smirked.

His efforts paid off, and the warrior attempted to disguise a laugh with a scornful noise of derision. "Very funny, Varric." Turning away, she clasped her hands and propped her elbows upon her knees for support.

"Come on," he encouraged her quietly, "you can ask me when I'm out cold, but not when I'm right here?"

"I... Varric," she started, biting her lower lip in an effort to fight against a wave of heavy emotion, "why did you tell me to run...? I can see why you wanted Solas' help, but... You could have asked Vivienne to find him. Why me? I would have protected you from all of this..." She gestured toward him, at a loss for words and opting instead to indicate the various injuries he'd sustained.

It was then that Varric understood why she had remained at his side. She hadn't done so out of fierce loyalty to him, much less the foolish notion he'd briefly entertained that she might actually care for him somewhere beneath that hard shell of hers. No, it was just plain and simple guilt that had moved her to personally assist in his recovery. How stupid of him to have thought otherwise...

"Well," he began with a sigh, striving to keep his voice level so as not to betray his odd sense of disappointment, "Justice always had a soft spot for mages. I figured from what I know about him that he'd be less willing to hurt the Iron Lady, let alone kill her to get to me. But here's the thing," he held up a finger between them, meeting her eyes seriously, "he hates templars with an almost unshakable passion. If I'd sent Iron Lady to bring back Chuckles, and _you_ stood between us and fought him the way she did... He wouldn't have hesitated for a second. You'd be dead, now."

Cassandra seemed indignant at his explanation. "But I - I'm _not_ a templar," she argued reasonably. "Seekers of Truth are responsible for _overseeing_ the templars, weeding out the corruption we find in their ranks - and trust me when I say it is a thankless job! Especially from the templars, themselves!"

"You and I know that, Seeker, but do you _really_ believe Justice would have made that distinction?" He pursed his lips doubtfully. "Anyway, he's convinced that _all_ templars are corrupt in some way. He'd have ripped your head from your shoulders for failing in your duties, as far as he's concerned."

Cassandra sat nonplussed, all of her anxious movements stilling at Varric's revelation. "So instead of allowing me to protect you," she slowly pieced together, "you protected me, instead..."

Varric nodded, keeping his eyes lowered as he let the realisation sink in. "Yeah, well, I would have done the same for anyone else on our team."

She turned to him, her brown eyes wide and slightly despairing. "Truly...?"

He caught her frank gaze and sat upright slowly, taken aback by the strange look the Seeker held. She was giving him way too many mixed signals for one conversation. "You didn't think you were special to me, did you?" He smirked gently.

Her eyes misted under the candlelight, and Varric stared at her curiously as he tried in earnest to decipher what the hell was going on inside that crazy head of hers. Just as her lips parted in an attempt to express a thought, her eyes darted toward the door. Without warning, she turned abruptly to face the front, and it was then that Varric caught swift, heavy steps on the approach.

He cleared his throat loudly and rapped his knuckles against the door before coming to a stop, looking particularly overwrought and flustered. "I apologise, Cassandra, but the Inquisitor - Oh!" Cullen froze in his tracks, staring with wide, slightly dazed eyes. The pair turned as one to observe the Commander paling under a layer of cold sweat. "Varric! You - You're alive! Well, I suppose that's _some_ good news." Taking a few steps inside the chapel, he wiped the sweat from his brow with a glove and offered cautiously, "And here I was under the impression that you were done for."

Varric draped an arm over the back rail, nodding as he waved an extravagant hand. "Yeah, can you believe it? I saw a bright light and everything. Naked babies with feathered wings, gilded chariots on white clouds, my grandparents complaining about the food while riding on the back of a griffon - the usual stuff."

Cullen looked to Cassandra, whom shook her head and fought against the smile overtaking her face as she feigned an itch that required her to turn her face away, her shoulders lurching in silent mirth. "Uh - right," he gathered plainly from her reaction. "That was sarcasm."

"You're good at this, Curly."

He rolled his eyes contemptuously. "And you've completely regained all of your endearing mental faculties, I see." Shifting his lion's helmet from one side to the other, the mannerisms he'd entered with returned as he let out a trembling breath. "Cassandra, you're required at an urgent debriefing with the Inquisitor."

She made to rise, but Varric laid a hand on her wrist, stilling her momentarily. "What's this about?" He questioned Cullen bluntly.

"Oh, eh," he stammered, his eyes darting off to the side, " n-nothing that concerns you. It's all just boring strategy-talk, I'm sure. You ought to be more concerned with your health - maybe you should check in with the infirmary and get some much-needed rest."

Varric stared critically, studying the Commander for tells. All his years of card playing were paying off as he scrutinised every nervous fidget the man made in the prolonged silence. Something was going on, and Cullen clearly didn't want him aware of what it was.

"Varric," Cassandra asked, bringing his attention back, "do you need us to take you back?"

He shook his head lamely, wincing as he was sharply reminded of the soreness in his neck. "I'll be fine, Seeker," he rasped, rubbing at the spot giving him trouble and trying to appear as casual as possible. "You go be important. I better make sure the Iron Lady hasn't turned Sparkler into a toad for letting me out of his sight."

Knowing better than to ask if he was certain, she nodded and stood up, patting his shoulder gently as she moved past him. "We'll speak another time, perhaps."

"Sure," he agreed. "Oh, by the way, Seeker, it may be a while before I can write again. I'll give it a shot as soon as I can hold a pen, but no promises."

"Don't concern yourself with that, now," Cassandra reassured him as she reached Cullen's side, the two heading for the door together. "There are more pressing matters that call our attention..." She turned back for a moment to send him a weak smile. "But I do look forward to reading it when it's ready."

"I know you do," he nodded, waving goodbye as she moved out of sight. "See you later."

He listened to their echoing steps carefully and, once he was certain they were far enough away, Varric held his breath as he darted despite his limp as quickly as he could to the door. Sure enough, his suspicions were confirmed as he heard them break into a run in the near-distance. _Urgent debriefings with the Inquisitor aren't nothing,_ he thought grimly, doubling back and holstering Bianca over his shoulders.

Varric had to find out what the hell was going on in this place, and why nobody wanted him to know about it.

**~oOo~**

The Commander led the Seeker speedily over the grounds of Suledin Keep, careful to appear to onlookers as though nothing of note was occurring. Frowning, Cassandra kept up with his long strides, pausing briefly as he approached a door in the eastern face of the tower and glanced over his broad shoulders. "Is he following?" Cullen murmured, hovering around the door on the off-chance that he indeed was.

"No," Cassandra blurted her answer in confusion, casting her eyes over the recruits and merchants in the square. "He couldn't keep pace with us, even had he wanted to. His injuries wouldn't allow for it."

"Good," he sighed with relief, finally walking to the door and opening it silently. Cullen ushered her through, and together, they ascended the winding staircase to the top floor.

"Cullen, I think an explanation is in order," she bit curtly, watching her steps carefully on the icy stone stairs.

He let out a rueful sigh, nodding his agreement. "I'd tell you, Cassandra, but I'm not exactly capable of answering the questions that would surely follow. I'll let him tell you."

"Who's 'him'?" she wondered, a cold lump solidifying in her gut.

She caught sight of the table as she ascended the last steps and was surprised to find not only Inquisitor Lavellan seated there, her fingers laced together under her nose as she leaned on her hands, but also Vivienne and Solas, Cole sitting quietly on the windowsill a few feet away next to an ancient-looking vase.

"Cassandra," Lavellan greeted her, clearly as unaware as the Seeker herself was regarding the situation. "Have a seat and we'll get started." Cullen pulled the chair adjacent to Solas out for her before walking around and sitting with a sigh of trepidation beside Vivienne.

Her brow furrowing, Cassandra lowered herself down slowly, gripping her trembling hand beneath the table and out of sight, determined to appear strong despite the oppressive atmosphere. "What has happened?" She asked them with a firm voice to conceal her worry. "Has Corypheus struck an outpost?"

Lavellan exchanged a questioning look with Solas, whom leaned forward and laced his long fingers together upon the table. "No, this doesn't concern Corypheus," he clarified readily. "Actually, _I_ called this meeting, Seeker Cassandra... It's about our troubled prisoner, Anders."

Glaring, Cassandra scooted her chair back and made to leave instantly, but Cullen placed his hand on the table and traded with her a look brimming with such despondency that she was momentarily taken aback. If Cullen had thought it wasn't important enough to discuss, he wouldn't have led her to this secluded area of the keep to join the debriefing.

Lowering herself down again, she cast her eyes around the table warily, finally letting her gaze rest on the elven man. "What could that _terrorist_ say to you that would be worthy of any response?"

Closing his eyes contemplatively, Solas bit his lower lip, considering his words carefully. "This information was given to me under the strictest assurances of privacy, but I trust that, once you hear what I have to say, you will understand why I deemed it reasonable to breach our confidentiality... Shortly after the events at Adamant Fortress, Anders lay driven to the point of despair from dreams the like of which he could not bear. In his turmoil upon receiving word from Varric, Justice sought to avenge the soul with whom it shared a body, and took over to allow Anders respite."

He ignored Vivienne's silent eye roll and continued, "When Justice then discovered the letter from Varric, the spirit corrupted to Vengeance and determined, incorrectly, that Varric was ultimately to blame for..."

"For killing Hawke," Lavellan shuddered visibly, pushing her clasped hands between her knees to calm herself. "That was my decision to leave him behind... Vengeance should have come for _me_ , not Varric. Creators, this is all my fault..."

 _"Hamin, vhenan_ ," Solas reassured her softly. "You did not kill Hawke... No one is at fault." He looked down the table at the waiting faces staring his way. "In fact, that is exactly why I have called you all here."

Her eyes transfixed in a moment's horror, Cassandra's mouth dried up instantaneously, and she shot an alarmed expression toward Cullen, whom sat across from her, his knuckles repeatedly brushing against his scarred lip to stave off the tears standing out in his hazel eyes. With a shaky lip, Cullen attempted to smile regretfully her way, and sighed as he straightened, leaning his elbows on the old table as he broke the news that nearly froze her blood:

"Cassandra... I don't know how to tell you this, but... Hawke survived."


	9. Requiem for a Nightmare

She was deaf to what they were saying for seconds, or minutes possibly, but at this point it was too difficult to be certain. There was a dull ringing in her ears that blocked all sound from reaching her. Her breathing became shallow in her chest, if it happened at all, which only caused her head to swim further. The colour drained from her face, lips going numb, thoughts simultaneously shutting down and working overtime, replaying Cullen's voice in a seemingly endless loop as her skin crawled and tingled over the length of her body. Everything was so still, even though those around her moved effortlessly, waving their hands, covering their faces, exchanging heated words she could not comprehend.

 _Shock,_ Cassandra realised slowly, turning her gaze on her more animated companions. She was going into shock - not only emotionally, but physically. No one appeared to notice her struggle as she fought against her dry mouth to speak, though nothing came out no matter how she tried. _Oh, Andraste help me, I'm going to faint. Don't faint, Cassandra..._

Movement to her left suddenly caught her eye... A young man rising from the window and walking toward her, focusing on her alone. Who was he, so intense and foreign, yet familiar? Was this all a dream? She blinked slowly, considering that last thought carefully. It was entirely plausible that she'd finally succumbed to her exhaustion, perhaps as far back as when she'd begun her prayers in the chapel. How much of this had been real so far? What if Varric had never truly been there at all, if he was yet another figment of her sleep-starved imagination, still unconscious and fighting for life in the infirmary?

_No... This is really happening._

Cassandra raised her face to the strange boy as he made his way over the shoulder of the Commander, utterly statuesque and invisible to all but her. Her questioning eyes pleaded for clarity, but her mouth seemed to forget what it had ever meant to speak, so dry and voiceless.

_Come back, Cassandra._

She shook her head roughly and, in the blink of an eye, the young man - _Cole,_ she remembered suddenly - was seated again beside the window as though he'd never left his place, staring out the frosted glass at the courtyard of people below. Cole cast a glance over his patched shoulder, giving her a solitary nod before he turned his attention back, his hat obscuring all. It was the only clue she had that what she'd just experienced was in fact reality - surreal, but reality nonetheless.

"...took a bit of decryption on my part, but my suspicions first arose on explorations through the Fade with the Inquisitor shortly after taking the Fortress. Then it went further when Cole initially warned of the danger on the mountain. From key phrases spoken, I was later able to approach Anders and inquire about the details."

"But that doesn't answer my question of _how_ we know he's still alive," Lavellan pressed, her head in her hands as she processed the revelation slowly. "I know that we... observed things in my dreams, Solas, but nothing made sense to me."

"There is one indication, however tenuous you all may find it, " Solas sighed, glancing around the table invitingly. "Have any others also suffered from intense dreams that have lingered in your mind throughout the day?"

Cassandra's jaw dropped open, seeing in her mind's eye the nightmares that had plagued her for weeks after Adamant. "Yes," she confirmed, her heart hammering away in her chest, "I have dreamt often of the Champion since that day... They were always terrible dreams."

Clearing his throat, Cullen nodded as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes lost in dark memories. "I am no stranger to nightmares... After the siege on the Warden stronghold, it was entirely expected that I'd suffer a few pertaining to the men I had ordered into areas who ultimately died; that comes with the territory. But I couldn't explain why I also dreamt of Hawke battling a creature that rivalled anything I've ever seen personally. When I read your report, Cassandra, I saw my strange nightmare written out as if I'd transcribed it, myself. I don't know how else I could have known any of that, ahead of time."

He glanced over and made tentative eye contact with the Seeker. "The only difference from what you reported and what I saw," Cullen said, a finger raising in emphasis of his point, "was that Hawke fought that demon long after the rift closed behind the Inquisitor, and _amazingly_... he managed to strike it down. Don't ask me how he did it, but I saw the Champion drag himself out from under the body of that _thing_ and gasp for breath on the rocks... And then he began to grin... His odd laughter was... unsettling." Shuddering at his recollection, he added, "I assumed it was just a warped conjuring from my own imaginings, until now."

"You're basing this conclusion purely on nightmares?" Vivienne criticised derisively, turning a doubtful eye on the apostate. "That is a leap even I would not have anticipated you to make, Solas. It is wholly symptomatic of those having recently undergone a traumatic event to then dream of similar horrors. This could all be a fabrication of Anders' subconscious mind; it's not as though he was the most stable individual to begin with."

"I did mention it was tenuous, if you recall, Madame de Fer," Solas muttered as he rubbed a hand over his face. "Still, that is only a small portion of the evidence I have obtained. In my meditations in the dungeons, I took it upon myself to enter the Fade and seek out those of whom would be able to provide a clearer picture of the circumstances surrounding - "

"You verified Anders' tale with your demon affiliates," she interrupted coolly, her eyes narrowing.

Cole turned from his place by the window and shook his head. "They're _not_ demons," he countered softly, surprising everyone with his unexpected input.

The elf shot Vivienne a disapproving glare. "Cole is right. They are _spirits,"_ he corrected her sharply. "Unlike those in _this_ world, my friends in the Fade are not so easily corrupted. You would be wise to educate yourself of the differences, rather than allowing your mistrust to paint all you refuse to understand with a broad brush. And yes, of course I contacted them. Just who else would I ask while walking the Fade? Master Frederick, the local retired smithy?"

Vivienne tacitly ignored Cullen's suppressed snort and glared indignantly. "If my rational scepticism of your extraordinary claim leads you to stoop to ad hominem attacks, then I fail to see why you personally requested my presence at this debriefing."

"Ad _hominems?_ Oh, she is remarkable! Wait, let me bask in the irony for a moment," Solas smirked dangerously, leaning back in his seat and eyeing the mage critically. "Vivienne, when have you ever refrained from belittling those that disagree with you in order to make yourself appear their better? The only people you don't sink your fangs into are those from whom you stand to directly benefit."

The Circle mage let out a small, delightful laugh at hearing this, straightening her posture even further and raising her chin high in defiance. "Oh, do not be so transparently envious, my dear. We both play our parts to achieve our respective goals. I have simply turned it into an art form, whereas you stomp about like an undisciplined child when you do not get what you want."

"Okay, we've had just about enough from you two, thank you," Lavellan cut in loudly, completely exasperated with her companions. "Put your differences aside and get back to the point."

"My apologies, Inquisitor," Solas inclined his head regretfully. "And to you as well, Vivienne. You and I may both be mages, but we hold vastly differing perspectives. I did not want this meeting to be skewed heavily by my own point of view. In truth, I much prefer to have my position challenged, so that I may be informed of all avenues of prevailing thought in order to choose the wisest course of action. And as such, your training in the Circle of Magi directly contrasts my more... self-taught ways. That is why I requested your presence, here."

"Apology accepted, Solas," Vivienne nodded simply, relaxing her stance to a slight degree.

The elf waited in silence for Madame de Fer to return the apology, his brown brows raised. Upon receiving none, he quietly breathed a dismissive laugh and pushed no further. "So, as I now have you all here to discuss the matter, I would like to proceed with determining Anders' sentencing. Now, I am the first to admit that I have not always kept abreast of current politics while on my journeys, but I feel I am equipped to represent - "

"Wait," Cassandra cut in suddenly, her eyes wide with shock. "This meeting is only to discuss a _sentence?"_ Her eyes darted around the table, attempting to rally them behind her. "To _hell_ with Anders! Why are you treating this news like Hawke is a lost cause?! We should be assembling a rescue team for the Champion immediately! He slew the nightmare demon after giving us the chance we needed to escape; the least we can do for him now would be to save him! Who stands with me?!"

The room had gone unnervingly silent during her stirring speech, enough so that the distant bustle of the marketplace outside could be heard easily from their seats on the top floor of the stone tower. Those present, aside from the Inquisitor herself, shot wary glances to one another in the stillness, quietly electing which of them would answer the incensed warrior and risk possible dismemberment.

"Ah... Cassandra," Cullen began hesitantly after clearly recognising he stood the least chance of sustaining an injury from her, "his survival is purely a mitigating circumstance we're to take into account as the Inquisitor dispenses her judgement... Now, we all obviously agree with your sentiments regarding our moral responsibility to do something for Hawke, but if we were to attempt that mission, it would... not exactly have the outcome you're hoping for."

 _"Bullshit!"_ She stood and slammed her fist against the table's surface, fire in her eyes as she kicked her chair, which crashed and splintered against the opposite wall. "We _owe_ him! Explain to me why the Inquisitor cannot just open another rift so that we can find him and bring him back!"

Lavellan turned to the elf apprehensively, laying a hand on his forearm as he lowered his head and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Solas, I've physically been through the Fade twice, now. We can _do_ this, I promise. If it's a question of my safety..."

"The matter the Herald's safety is of utmost importance," Vivienne countered gently, lacing her well-manicured hands together on her lap as Cassandra paced the length of the small room. "It is only by the grace of the Maker that you have managed to survive these terrible ordeals to date. I shall be extremely concerned if we begin to believe ourselves invincible to the threats lying within that realm."

"That is a major concern, of course," Solas agreed, patting Lavellan's hand before moving to cross his arms over his chest, "but even were you to _survive_ passing through the Veil for a third time, and managed somehow to locate the Champion, that would not alter what has already long-since occurred."

"Wandering wistfully, wondering where he went wrong," Cole breathed against the frozen glass, running his finger through the condensation he created with his words. "Desperate, demented, descending down into the darkness to die. He unravels there, somewhere he can hide from them, but he still sees them, looking like lovers, mothers, brothers, others to his eyes. They try to understand, but he's not home, not whole, ...not Hawke, anymore."

"What the hell is Cole talking about?" Cassandra demanded harshly, bitterness dripping from her tone.

Cullen rapped his knuckles against the table lightly, wincing as he chewed at his scarred lip pensively. "During my service in Kinloch Tower, before Uldred utterly destroyed it," he began thoughtfully, "I attended the Harrowings of several mages, a ritual that sent prospective candidates into the Fade to prove their merit against the demons there."

"A barbaric practice, to say the least," Solas interrupted disdainfully, "but do go on."

Vivienne smirked condescendingly. "A _necessary_ practice to identify those not wilful enough to withstand temptation, Solas."

"So then templars either slaughter them if they cannot resist a powerful creature, or offer the Rite of Tranquillity beforehand to avoid finding out whether or not they can," he bit back instantly. "Do not ask me to discern which fate is worse, Vivienne."

"Oh, no one is asking you, dear."

"My _point,"_ Cullen shut the bickering down with a hard look, "is that... Well, unfortunately yes, if a mage could not resist, I was obligated to strike the abomination down - that is the reality of the ritual. There is a good reason the practice was named 'The Harrowing', after all. Still, I don't know what became of the actual person, if anything... The body was put down, but the mind could have remained in the Fade... And if it did, I imagine being trapped in a dream world would drive _anyone_ mad."

Cassandra's pacing became more fervent, and she had no idea what to do with her hands other than to lay one on the pommel of her longsword. "I am fully aware of the practice, Cullen, but what does that have to do with anything? Speak plainly."

"Essentially," Solas took over the explanation, nodding toward Cullen in acknowledgement of his input, "those left in the Fade, physically or otherwise, do not remain intact for long, Cassandra, and the study of magic has shown that, to exist there for any length of time, one must be as certain in their purpose as the spirits that inhabit it. Though Hawke displayed bravery and lived through the first wave of the attack, I seriously must question the premise that he was free of all doubt regarding himself, or the choices he made in life... And it has been written that nothing that knows doubt can survive in the Fade."

Inquisitor Lavellan nodded solemnly, muttering to herself, "I guess I should try to remember that... Could come in handy, someday..."

Cassandra stood paralysed at what was being said, unable to comprehend the true gravity of their words. She barely resisted the urge to flip the table, instead feeling her arms go weak at her sides as she was overwhelmed with a keen sense of helplessness.

"What everyone here is attempting to convey, Cassandra," Vivienne stated soothingly as she met the Seeker's eyes, "is that the Champion, if we choose to believe that he was victorious in his encounter with the demon, has more than likely been irreversibly driven to the point of insanity. I am sorry, my dear, but it's beyond any magical study yet known to restore what he has lost. There would be nothing left of the man to save, not as we once knew him. To bring him back and force him to live out his life that way would be a crueler fate than allowing him to meet his end where he is, soon enough."

Leaning over the table, she lowered her face in sickening defeat, her mind reeling as she understood their reasoning. "So, we simply abandon him," Cassandra whispered hoarsely, saving her grief for a more appropriate time. "We give him up to the Maker's Hands, and leave him to die alone..."

Solas shook his head gently, adopting a sympathetic tone. "Not necessarily," he reassured her sombrely. "I do have an idea which might work for all those concerned, if you'll hear me."

"What is it?" Lavellan asked hopefully.

Sighing, the apostate rubbed long fingers over his tired eyes and crossed his arms on the table. "The fact remains that Anders must face judgement for his crimes, as he is determined not to contest the charges levied against him. To execute him outright, in _my_ opinion, if it's worth anything, would be yet another undue cruelty to a man who has suffered more than his fair share recently."

"Not only that," Cullen added ruefully, "but it might also serve to make a martyr out of him, and that could incite our mage allies to take up arms, which, though it is a slim possibility, is not a risk I'm willing to take. But what alternative do we have?" He asked, waving an inviting hand.

Lavellan's eyes widened, putting the pieces together for herself as she turned to Solas. "Wait, are you about to suggest that we - that _I_... banish Anders to the Fade, to share in Hawke's fate?"

"Yes, that would be better," Cole said, nodding his head beneath the wide brim of his tattered hat enthusiastically. "Justice will go back home, and he'll be free... And Justice will help Anders find Hawke. They wouldn't be alone, anymore... We could help them all find peace."

"Vivienne, your opinion, please," Solas invited her criticism, readying himself for her inevitable disapproval.

Tapping a pensive finger against her full lips, Vivienne narrowed her eyes thoughtfully at the elf, weighing the proffered sentence carefully. Surprisingly, she eventually nodded in satisfaction. "I think that is a brilliant solution to both problems, Solas," she agreed, taking everyone aback as all eyes turned to her in disbelief. "Oh, don't be so dramatic," she shrugged delicately, "I still believe in the art of compromise, and as far as I and _many_ other like-minded mages are concerned, a quick death would be _far_ too easy for someone like Anders. To sentence him to live the remainder of his wretched life completely out of his mind is quite satisfactory. At the very least, he will never be able to terrorise Thedas again."

Reluctantly, Solas accepted her vindictive reasoning and turned to the Inquisitor. "Then it's settled, so long as the Herald approves."

Biting her lip, Lavellan let out a ragged sigh and closed her watery eyes, nodding wordlessly as she leaned forward on her rickety chair to lower her head in her hands, clearly burdened with the task of determining peoples' fates. "Well, they'll have each other to hold once more before the end, I suppose... It would almost be romantic, if it wasn't so damn tragic as all hell..."

Cassandra swallowed hard around the lump in her throat, turning away from the table and staring out the far window, which sported an unobstructed view of the tarnished bridge in the distance, the final decision practically turning her guts inside out. "None of you are to tell Varric of what has happened to the Champion," she muttered bleakly, wiping a single tear from her eye. "It would destroy him to hear this, I know it..."

Cole rose suddenly and looked around him at all the faces caught by his unexpected movement."Nobody has to tell him," he answered her in confusion, meeting her puzzled stare. "He already knows."

Stunned, the Seeker's jaw dropped as the words hit her like a hammer, the blood nearly halting in her veins. _How could Varric know any of this if he cannot dream to see it for himself?_

Just as she had found her voice again to question Cole's statement, she caught the subtle creaking of a door hinge from the bottom floor of the stone tower, which she now realised carried sound all too well, followed by the quietest utterance of the word, "Shit," that she had ever heard.

And it was then, in that moment of cold clarity, that Cassandra's heart truly broke within her.

**~oOo~**

He'd been caught red-handed. _Damn it, Kid, why'd you have to go and say that?_ An extremely out-of-sorts Varric Tethras stumbled through the chilly courtyard, not only from the soreness of his injuries, and attempted in vain to focus on the many faces as he passed the market stalls, though none of them were easily discernible through the haze.

 _Where the hell am I going?_ At this point, he didn't know, nor did he care. All he kept thinking was that he had to get away, far, far away from what he'd overheard, the truth too much to bear. But it wasn't working... Not even in the slightest.

"Hey... 'Ey, Varric! Helloooo!"

"Uh?" He was lulled out of his thoughts, realising slowly that someone had been keeping pace with him, walking backwards in front of him to gain his attention.

" _'Uh?'_ " Sera mocked him affectionately with a giggle, stopping abruptly to force him to a halt. "You're gonna fall over; 'ere take 'em back," she shrugged, handing him the crutches Dorian had given him earlier in this very long day. "You find Cassandra, then? Told ya they were in the tower. Cullen thinks he can play it cool, but yeah, anybody with half a brain could tell he was hidin' somethin' big. So wot was it? Shit, you look like - "

She gasped suddenly, suppressing a fit of hysterical laughter with great difficulty. "Wait, were they _doin' it?!_ I _really_ shoulda seen that one comin'! Or maybe _you_ did, right?! I mean the other meanin', like. Maybe that's why you look so shook up. That would put me right off, too."

Varric fumbled with the crutches, placing the pads shakily under his arms as random syllables tumbled out of his mouth gratingly. Attempting a nod of thanks, he made to step around the talkative elf, resolving to go back to the infirmary and calm down.

"Whoa, 'ang on, Varric," she slid in front of him again, blocking his escape. "Somethin' ain't right with you. Wot's goin' on, wot's 'appened?"

"Nothing's going on, Daisy," Varric uttered absently, moving past her by blocking her with a crutch. "I just need a minute - I'm fine."

Sera furrowed her brows in confusion, watching him sidle away. "Who's Daisy? Is that my new nickname? I like Buttercup better."

"What? Oh, wait," Varric paused, shaking his muddled head from side to side. "No, sorry, that's somebody else... I'm getting kind of confused, Buttercup. I need to go figure some things out - on my own, for a while."

"Another elf, is she? Wot, we all look the same to you? You owe me another go with Bianca for that!"

He did his best to ignore her mock-aggravation, taking the icy stairs slowly as he descended back down toward the infirmary. Looking to his right, he spotted the door to his room at the end of the hall, intending to switch directions and head for the warm confines of his room and be alone for a while.

A small, muffled cry reached his ears from a dark alcove in the curve of a wall, catching his attention. Arching a brow in curiosity, Varric ventured to his left with the aid of his crutches, careful not to startle whatever creature lay hidden there. "Who's that?" He muttered hoarsely, slowing his movements until he stopped before the edge of the shadow, cast by the upper floor onto the stone at his bare feet.

Surprisingly, a mangy young grey kitten pranced trustingly out of the darkness, making its way eagerly to Varric and running the length of its little body against his slightly swollen ankle. It mewled and wove between his legs, likely hungry and begging for any morsels he might have on his person, though his pockets were unfortunately empty. Still, its large green eyes met his own pleadingly as it let out another questioning cry.

"Hey there, pal," he greeted the tiny creature gently, bending down to let the kitten climb up the sleeve of his red coat to his shoulder. "How'd you get in here? Was this your home before we barged in without asking your permission? Poor little guy..." The kitten pawed playfully at the heavy gold ball chain around his neck, and Varric reached up to stroke beneath its chin soothingly with his braced finger. "You're probably starving," he observed, feeling its small ribs through the drab, furry coat. "I don't have any food for you, but I think I know where to get some..."

 _Shit,_ he thought ruefully, _this is one of those signs, isn't it?_ He pursed his lips and let his breath out slowly, trepidation causing his heart rate to increase. Was he really going to go through with this? Without leaving any time to talk himself out of it, he pressed on into the darkness of the corridor with his new friend perched upon his shoulder, heading toward the one place in all of Thedas he definitely didn't want to go.

"Come on, little buddy... I want you to meet an old 'associate' of mine."

**~oOo~**

Lonely hours ticked by, one bleeding slowly into the other, the beam of daylight from the grate above the only indication of time passing outside his squalid cell. He didn't like being trapped anywhere; it reminded him too much of his days in the Circle, but this wasn't something he could hope to escape - had he possessed such an inclination. The wall he leaned his head against wasn't comfortable at all, but he was numb enough, both physically and mentally, to disregard a search for another place to rest his troubled mind. It would all be over soon, at least; Cullen may have been a templar once, but he had been one of the good and honest ones. The man wouldn't have lied about advocating for his quick and painless death. And, regretfully, it couldn't come quickly enough.

Anders held a picture in his mind's eye, a memory frozen in time, something he pulled out and lost himself to whenever times felt completely hopeless... One of catching Garrett smiling to himself as he stared at Anders while his back was turned, then laughing and rolling his eyes at his own mushy behaviour. Hawke had said something self-deprecating before he'd walked over and planted a single whiskery kiss on his cheek, picking up his daggers and going outside their poor excuse for a house in the harsh wilderness of the Anderfels to use the grindstone, which he did habitually. _Always be prepared,_ Garrett had chimed on many occasions. Maker, that man had been the only light left in Anders' life...

The tears refused to come anymore. He'd long since spent all he had to spare, but the grief was still unbearably present. Anders held firm to that memory of casual affection, desperate not to relive the nightmares of watching his love wander the spirit world, approached by spirits who took the forms of those closest to him, both living and dead, until he was in a fit of wild hysterics, brimming with uncontrollable laughter through his confused and heartbroken sobs. Oh, Andraste, he had gone mad in there... Hawke had always been there for Anders through his bouts of insanity, and there was nothing he could do to return the favour. It was out of his power to do anything for Garrett.

He prayed this torture would be over soon... For the both of them.

It took a moment to notice the superficial sting on his leg, and he barely had the energy to turn his head, but that he gradually did. The needle-like pain moved upward, clawing up his tattered robe until the little visitor popped its head over his bent knee and pulled itself up to perch on top, staring at him with large, innocent eyes.

Anders blinked in confusion at the newcomer, and its faint mewling finally penetrated his haze, voicing its hunger. "Oh," his throat croaked, "h-hello, there..." Looking down, he frowned at his uneaten dinner and moved his shackled hands to dip a finger into a bit of watery gravy, lifting it to the kitten's mouth. The sweet little thing lapped it up greedily, its tongue like sandpaper on his skin. Thoroughly curious, it leaped down from atop its perch and fell on his meagre meal ravenously as Anders scooped up the bread to save for himself.

"Easy, tiger," he said with an exhausted smile, "don't want to give yourself a sore tummy, now. If you're still hungry after that, there's plenty of mice running about to catch. You'd be doing me a favour... But they might be too big for you to take on yourself, though... I think I'll call you... 'Mouse'. You're the right colour for it... What do you think?" He ran a hand from its small head to the tip of its tail, relieved to take his mind off of his own misery for a time.

"I really hate to say it, but... It's good to see you smiling again."

He thought his heart had stopped, but it quickly caught up with him, rising up to meet his throat and choking off a yelp of surprise. Unbelievably, on the worn chair outside his cell, to date only occupied by the mage Solas and the spirit Cole, sat the hunched form of his estranged dwarven friend. Varric's bruised eyes met his for a moment before he lowered his head, choosing instead to stare at his clasped hands, one braced middle finger pointing in his direction. He supposed that was appropriate, all things considered.

" _Varric_... You're _alive,"_ Anders blundered stupidly, stating the obvious. There was nothing else he could muster to say in the moment, so taken aback by this sudden appearance. How he prayed the man wasn't actually a ghost come back from beyond to haunt Anders for killing him.

Varric nodded, shifting the elbows propped against his knees to ease his discomfort. "Yeah, so they tell me. If this is a dream, then this is a first for me."

Getting his feet under him, Anders dragged his weary body as close to the cell door as he dared, squinting in the dim light to get a better look. "Maker," he observed mournfully, "you look... awful..."

Sighing, his friend rubbed his chin and sat up, meeting his eyes steadily. "Not the first to point that out, either, Blondie, but thanks for refraining from using the term 'dog shit'. That one's been overdone."

"I did this to you," Anders whispered, his eyes travelling over the dwarf. Wrapped bandages covered part of his exposed chest hair, a splint donned the broken finger on his dominant hand, and bruises and scrapes covered his eyes, throat, knuckles, and probably elsewhere that couldn't be seen. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall, along with Bianca, his trusty crossbow, which looked slightly different from when last he'd seen it due to new modifications that had been made. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Varric... Please believe me, I never meant to harm you."

"I know you didn't mean it, Blondie," he muttered reluctantly. "Justice can be a bit of an asshole... But that's not what I came here to talk about."

Anders hesitated for a moment as he focused all his energy on suppressing Justice's righteous indignation at the insult, and eventually felt the spirit relent, his shoulders slumping in response as he sighed and nodded. "What do you want to know?" he asked bleakly, lowering his gaze to the floor of his cell.

Dozens of seconds passed by in silence until Varric eventually sniffed back tears and wiped at his bruised face, clearly overwhelmed with deep emotion. "Ah," he stammered, sniffing again and clearing his throat gruffly, "is, um... Is it... true? ...About... what happened to Hawke?"

His eyes widening in alarm, Anders stood flummoxed, in a state of stark disbelief. Varric knew the truth. Damn that elf, Solas had betrayed his trust! Of course he had, though, if he really was who Justice claimed he was; what more should he have expected from the infamous Dread Wolf Merrill had told him so much about? Even though his secret had been exposed, Anders swallowed hard and decided against vindictively returning the favour. The elven mage didn't much resemble the tales anyway, and since Justice called him friend, perhaps history hadn't been so kind to him...

"Varric... I don't think it would be good for you to know - "

"Don't _tell_ me what I should and shouldn't know," he raised his broken voice in frustration. "Shit, _everyone's_ trying to protect me like I'm some fragile old man on his deathbed! I know _damn well_ it's gonna hurt, but the _not_ knowing is what's actually going to kill me! Come on, Blondie, you kind of owe me, at this point..." He let out a ragged sigh and leaned back in his chair. "I'll feel better for it. It's cathartic for me to get it all out there in the open."

He raised his shackled hands to his face and rubbed roughly, attempting to wake himself up and prepare for the reaction. Letting out a slow breath, he finally admitted, "Yes... Yes, it's true. I didn't want to believe it at first, but..."

Anders would have continued had Varric not promptly doubled over, desperately fighting to hold back his anguish. The emotional response ripped open the wound on his soul, and the mage fell to his knees before the despondent dwarf. "Varric," he pleaded solemnly, "please, listen to me. I never blamed you for Garrett's fate - I still don't. Justice was horribly mistaken, and I know I will never be able to say anything to make it up to you, but... Oh, Maker, lay every ounce of guilt on me so that not a shred of it is left on your shoulders."

Varric remained silent as he kept his head lowered, unable to do more than offer a wave of reassurance his way and roughly cough away the tears, waiting until he gathered enough of his dignity back to resume the conversation.

A now fully-stuffed Mouse waddled over to Anders, kneaded gently on the robes over his lap, and curled into a furry grey ball, completely content and comfortable as it nodded off drowsily in the throes of a food coma. Lightly scratching the tiny kitten behind its ears, he smirked softly at one of their shared, fond memories and looked up to the fading light of the grate. "Boiling in oil..."

His old friend paused for a second, then looked up quizzically, his brow furrowing as he vaguely recognised the phrase.

Smiling sadly, Anders glanced his way and sighed dreamily. "Or perhaps trapped in a cave of hungry bears, right at the spring thaw... No, too easy. Dipped in molten gold and left as a statue in the Inquisitor's keep."

"What are you talking about?" Varric wondered, a brow arched humorously.

Shrugging in defeat, he simply replied, "Just trying to guess what my sentence will be. You know her; what do you think the Inquisitor will do?"

His face contorting in remorse, the man forced a smile over his battered features. "Yeah, I thought that might be where you were going..." He placed his hands on his knees and let out a heavy sigh. "Sent into the Fade to separate you from Justice, then reunited with Hawke until you gradually go crazy with him, and eventually die." Varric's words cut off in his throat, but he managed to wheeze out the last word: "Together."

Anders' jaw dropped lamely at the news, and he lifted a shaking hand to cover his gaping mouth as a ragged breath eked out of his throat. Tears sprang up anew, a convoluted jumble of reactions draining him instantly. Fear, gratefulness, hope, despair, relief... All of them flooded his body at once and overwhelmed him. Thoughts racing madly, he felt the tug of Justice stir within him, and it was then that he realised that his lost sense of purpose had returned to him. His new purpose, the only reason for living that had mattered to him for so many years, was to remain at Garrett's side, for better or for worse. And now, through the Inquisitor's undeserved mercy, he would finally fulfil that purpose to the bitter end.

"Well, it was Chuckles' idea," Varric said quietly. "Or Solas'. He thought you'd appreciate that."

Swelling with gratitude for his healer and confidant, Anders nodded absently, regretting his earlier thoughts on the wise elf. "He's actually a good man, that Solas..."

Laughing ruefully, he shrugged and waved a damaged hand. "He's about as annoying as Justice, sometimes, but I bet that comes from his fascination with spirits in general."

The main dungeon door burst open, startling them both and waking Mouse on Anders' lap. Petting the alarmed animal, he watched with raised brows as a human woman, clothed in the armour of the Seekers of Truth, cut a tentative path down the length of barred cells, stopping just short of passing the threshold to his palatial accommodations.

"Varric," she uttered nervously in a thick Nevarran accent, "I would like to have a word with you - privately, if possible."

"Ah, Seeker," he grumbled, "if this is about me invading your privacy again, I'm sorry, okay? I got curious..."

Finding his voice, Anders quipped dryly, "And you know what they say about curiosity." The woman shot him a sudden, brief glance that confounded him as much as she clearly already was. It was almost as though she didn't quite know what to make of him, not settling on disgust nor pity, but lost somewhere in the void between both expressions.

"Blondie, meet Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. She kidnapped me and stabbed my book, then dragged me into the middle of this shit-fest. Seeker, meet... Anders," he said, using his proper name. "You already know Blondie, obviously."

"I do," she glared, straightening her posture and avoiding the prisoner's eyes.

"It's Anders Hawke now, if you want to get technical about it," he smiled sadly as they straightened and turned to him.

"You... _married_ the Champion?" Cassandra breathed in mild shock.

Varric brightened at that, grinning despite himself. "So, you two finally tied the knot! That's odd - I didn't get an invitation, and Hawke never mentioned it to me. _And_ I doubt the Chantry officiated the wedding, given your... 'explosive' history."

The corner of Anders' lip upturned at the memory of that day in the Anderfels, and he glanced down to the sleeping kitten on his lap, petting Mouse softly. "It was private. Very private... The ceremony - if you could call it that - wasn't official, _per se_ , but... he gave me his name, and we exchanged vows. Luckily, thanks to your new friends, I'll be able to keep them... 'Till death do us part'... I hope you find that kind of love for yourself one day, Varric. Maker knows you deserve it..."

Swallowing another fit of sorrow that threatened to crop up, Varric nodded hard twice and lowered his head sombrely. "Well, that's probably not in the cards for me, Blondie, but... I'm glad I could be a part of Hawke's happiness, in some small way." Standing unsteadily, Varric limped over to the wall and strapped Bianca to his back, placing his crutches out before him. "I gotta get going for now, but I'll be seeing you around."

"Sure, Varric... I'm not going anywhere." Anders watched his old friend depart, the Seeker following closely at his side as she spoke. Though the conversation was muffled, Anders could just make out their echoing voices as they stopped to exchange words near the door:

"Varric, I am truly sorry you had to hear any of that. I wanted to be certain you were all right."

"I'll be fine, Seeker... Maybe not now, maybe not soon, but... I always bounce back. I get where you were coming from when you tried to shield me from it, and I heard the way you argued for saving Hawke, so you're still in my good graces... Is that what this is about?"

"Well... Not really. I did worry about you, but actually... Varric, I am _this_ close to collapsing from lack of sleep, and I would feel better if I knew where you were."

"Ah, I gotcha. Can't nod off without my masculine presence by your side, anymore?"

"It's not _like_ that! I simply... I might have terrible dreams, and - Well, you need to see Dorian for your treatments, so I thought we could sleep... together. Not _sleep_ together, that is not what I intended to - "

"Say no more, Seeker, I was just teasing you. Okay then, let's go get an early night... It's been a rough day."

As he opened the heavy dungeon door for her and allowed her to pass through first, leaving Anders in utter silence, the mage chuckled quietly and kneaded at the skin between the kitten's shoulder blades, eliciting a gentle purr. His spirits had been lifted beyond comprehension, and he breathed deeply, content in the knowledge that he would soon be with his beloved once more.

"I think he's already found it, Mouse... You think poor Varric knows it, yet..?"


	10. The Ties That Bind Him There

Sleep had a funny way of inconveniently blurring the steady passage of time, and the windowless room in the infirmary wing of Suledin Keep didn't shed any light on that quiet question for Varric. Literally.

Staring up at the stone ceiling in the extremely low light of the dying fire, he waited for his eyes to adjust before attempting a cautious stretch, and was pleasantly surprised to find the movement hardly pained him at all. Sparkler must have worked his magic while he was out. What was that he owed him, now, _seven?_ Apparently, Varric was starting to accumulate some serious debt... Good thing Sparkler wasn't working for the Carta.

Startled, a stirring to his left caught his attention, but he calmed just as quickly when he remembered through his sleepy haze that the Seeker had fallen asleep nearly instantaneously in the chair beside his gurney. Cassandra had toughed it out for too long, and it had taken a toll on her that Varric silently appreciated more than he had previously expressed. Perhaps he could have been more clear in his sentiment, but it was hard not to be flippant and sarcastic with his former captor.

Though she was partially covered with a standard-issue wool blanket, her gleaming armour stacked neatly on the floor near her feet, Cassandra was visibly shivering as the cold winter air crept in from under the door. Covering a yawn with his good hand, Varric leaned up and cautiously lowered himself to the frozen floor, making his way to the door and grabbing a spare blanket to lay on the stone and function as a makeshift draft excluder. Straightening, he then grabbed up another log for the fire and placed it near the smouldering ashes to catch. Hopefully that would be enough, for now.

He noticed not for the first time that all was silent around him, save for the soft breathing of his now seemingly stalwart companion. With the evidence at hand, Varric was fairly certain that he'd awoken in the middle of the night, the entire keep in the midst of a dead sleep - excluding the night watch, of course, who were probably freezing their asses off on the battlements. He couldn't say he envied their positions greatly.

The log slowly burst with vibrant flame at that moment, throwing a soft glow over the room and casting a comfortable heat within a handful of seconds, and in that time he still hadn't felt the urge to crawl back under his blanket and continue sleeping. He'd had so much rest over the past few days that he seriously doubted he'd caught more than a few hours just then, but the Seeker herself was out for the count, and would likely remain so for several more.

Glancing in her direction, he saw her shift uncomfortably against the wooden arm of the chair, grimacing in her sleep, and he felt an endearing frustration at her stubbornness. He'd offered her the comfort of the flat gurney before they'd walked through the door, but she had insisted he take it, if only to ease his stiff aches and pains for having pushed himself to the limit all day. Ironically, she was the worst pain of them all, and that simple fact made him smile all the more.

Stepping around the elevated cot, he made his way to the Seeker's side and bent over quietly, manoeuvring his arms under her knees and behind her back respectively as he carefully lifted her out of the chair, mindful not to wake her as he shifted her in his strong arms toward the gurney and gently laid her down. She breathed deeply, noticeably disturbed by the displacement, but instead of awakening she turned on her side on the relatively soft surface to warm her face by the fire, tucking her legs up as she placed her hands beneath her cheek in a makeshift pillow. After throwing both their blankets over her curled form, she let out a satisfied, sleepy moan of appreciation, gripping the blanket's edge in a possessive fist. Satisfied, Varric nodded and went to his pack against the far wall, pulling out pen and parchment, ideas for the next chapter of _Swords and Shields_ begging silently to be taken down.

"Okay," he whispered to the characters residing inside his mind, pulling off the bandage restraining his finger to better aid the process, "what do you all want me to dictate for you?"

**~oOo~**

Cassandra wandered aimlessly for ages through the murky water, unable to see bottom as her legs sunk into the scummy pond floor, the suction of pulling her trapped feet from the muck nearly claiming her boots with every step. A swamp, a sticky, stinking bog... Of all things, why was she being forced to trudge through water so thick that it could easily pass for curdled gravy? Suppressing the sudden reflex to heave at the thought, she held her sword high over her head with both hands as she trudged along, her nose turned away to avoid the foul stench, heavy armour slowing her otherwise frantic wading toward the other side of this blighted pit.

The whispers grew louder, more insistent, and became next to impossible to ignore. _Demons,_ she recognised instantly. They wanted something from her, were attracted to something within her, like a shiny bauble they couldn't help but nibble at as they inspected this newcomer. Memories flashed through her mind so clearly that it gave her pause as she vigorously shook her head to clear it of past horrors...

The Conclave at Haven exploding as she and Leliana were discussing Chantry business casually, a sick horror washing over her as her mind had denied the unthinkable...

Facing off against a dragon attack in the middle of Val Royeaux, riding its scaly back hundreds of feet in the air as Regalyan battled the cultists below her somewhere in the screaming, frantic crowd...

Her brother, struck down before her wide, innocent brown eyes, something she'd never imagined could happen to the strong young man she had loved and adored.

 _"Stop,"_ Cassandra gritted her teeth, reaching the other side and dripping scum from the chest down as she banished the flashes from her thoughts. She gagged in disgust when she tried in vain to wipe the sludge away with an armoured glove. Sheathing her sword in her dirty scabbard, she looked around at a loss, utterly forgetting why she had come this way in the first place. Her mind had never felt more hazy than it had for the past few hours, and she quelled the sense of fear that sprung up at her own isolated helplessness.

Wait. There. The strange cottage in the distance, plumes of smoke rising from the chimney - that was what had caught her attention before, why she had headed in this direction to begin with. Someone was inside, safe and warm, and she prayed silently that they would be able to help her find her way back home. She shoved her way past the dead crops in the small field between her and her goal, flinching and kicking away grotesquely large insects that crawled through the rotting plant life and attempted to latch onto her legs. Thoroughly disturbed by their twitching antennae and gleaming black exoskeletons, Cassandra broke into a short sprint and finally escaped the field, a chill running up her spine as she fought to catch her breath in this heavy, oppressive atmosphere.

Presentable was not a word she would use to describe herself right now, but she didn't have the luxury of a towel to wipe herself down before she rapped as calmly as she could on the door. Surprisingly, and perhaps all too forebodingly, the door creaked open a small crack, its rusty hinges grating her ears.

"Who's there?" A feminine voice probed from the stillness within. "Carver, don't be so rude. Go see who our guest is and invite them in!"

Her eyes widening for a fraction of a second, Cassandra froze as the name triggered some inaccessible memory buried in her mind. Where had she heard that before? "Carver...?" Her voice whispered in total confusion, trying desperately to answer her own question.

"I'm busy, mother; make Garrett do it! He's not doing anything useful!"

"Carver, don't speak to your mother disrespectfully. Get the door for us like a good lad."

A loud, frustrated sigh could be heard as clunking footsteps approached Cassandra, almost galloping in her direction. " _Yes_ , Father."

_Garrett. Carver. Mother. Father._

"Oh, Andraste, this isn't happening," she muttered breathlessly, stepping away from the door and turning to run anywhere but here.

The door swung wide, nearly ripping the wood from the hinges themselves, and an annoyed, dark-haired youth stood glowering, his head twisted at an odd angle as he met her eyes. Gasping, Cassandra noted with a transfixed horror that fresh blood ran down from an injury to his temple, and he seemed to hold himself up like an animated rag doll, as if all his bones were crushed and out of joint beneath his paper-thin skin.

When he took in her Seeker's armour, his creepy demeanour brightened, an unsettling grin spreading across his wide mouth. "Have you come to take me away from these people?" He asked her, an odd hopefulness in his tone.

"Uh... no," she stammered honestly, holding her hands out from her sides to show she meant the occupants no harm. Thinking on her feet, her eyes darted back and forth as she quickly recovered, her hand on the pommel of her longsword. "I... I am here to conduct a security check on this household. Are there any apostates living within of whom you are aware?"

"Oh, yes, come right in!" Carver nodded, the broken vertebrae in his neck scraping past one another as he gestured her inside. When she didn't immediately move to pass through the doorway, he grabbed her forcefully by the shoulders and tugged her in with surprising strength for someone so loose-limbed. Then the door slammed behind her, trapping her in what could only be described as pure, domestic hell.

Not even growing up around Uncle Vestalus, a Mortalitasi, could have prepared her for the macabre scene she had stumbled across. As the thing they called Carver plodded puppet-like back to the bubbling cauldron over the fire and ladled out a bowl of what looked to be boiling pond scum, her eyes travelled over the rest of the residents. A veined and stitched grey-haired woman sat at the dining table with a mug in her hands, dressed in a torn and grimy wedding dress. In a chair against the wall near a sideboard, a frail, clammy, coughing man sat engrossed in a newspaper, flipping through the blank pages in his hands as though searching for the continuation of an article he'd been reading, his skin pulled too tightly over his bones and diminished, once-powerful muscles. Leaning against the far wall with staff in hand was a young woman in full warden attire, her skin nearly translucent and deathly pale, eyes clouded from the effects of the Blight that had once plagued her. All of them were horrors beyond imagining, their foul flesh wreaking and filling the cottage, but most disturbing was their calm, homely nature, as if they hadn't noticed their own frightening, unnatural states of being.

"Yes?" The woman seated at the table smiled disingenuously, eyeing Cassandra from head to toe. "Good evening to you, gentlewoman. Is there something my family can do for you?"

Cassandra swallowed hard, blinking a few times before willing herself to speak. "Is this the... Hawke residence?"

"That would be us," the older man answered her over the top of his paper. He lapsed into a congested coughing fit for a long moment until the obstruction finally tore free, the black, pulsing mass falling to the floor and unbelievably slinking away under the floorboards like a slug fleeing for its life. "No need to worry, Leandra," he wiped at his black lips casually, "We won't come to harm. Please, state your business, Lady Seeker."

"She's hunting for _apostates,"_ Carver answered slyly, spooning the slop into his mouth and not quite making it in, the green liquid puddling out over his right cheek. "Have _you_ seen any, _Bethany?"_ He turned in a jerked movement and grinned maliciously at his sister, whom stood motionless, staring into dead space with unseeing eyes and mumbling something inaudible under her breath as she clutched at her staff until her knuckles shone bone-white.

"Actually," Cassandra amended, trying her best to control her shaking voice, "I'm looking for a man by the name of Garrett Hawke..."

"Oh, of _course_ you are. Who isn't these days?" Carver grumbled, quite literally burying his face in the bowl.

"Garrett?" Leandra looked up, the stitches around her face stretching and retracting. "Oh, you mean my eldest. When he's not leaving his family vulnerable and unprotected, he's out drinking with his unsavoury friends and killing random people in the streets. If it weren't for him... Well, never mind. We still love him, though, don't we, Malcolm? Our biggest little failure!"

"Yes, dear," Malcolm replied. "I _told_ that no-good son of mine with my very last breath to protect the family, but it seems my dying wishes were largely ignored. At least my little girl escaped Lothering unscathed, but just look at the poor dear, now. And all because of Garrett and his selfish dreams of fame and fortune. _Tsk!_ I do hope it was worth it."

Bethany twitched in response to her father's words, hunched over her staff as she began to shiver and lose strength in her legs. "The Calling," was all she kept repeating, holding a hand to her ear as she hit her knees and began rocking to and fro. "Don't you hear the song...? It's calling me... The Calling..."

Cassandra's jaw hung slack, unable to understand why the Champion's parents had said this of their own child in such an unfair and cruel manner. This was a nightmare beyond anything she had ever experienced herself - and it wasn't even her nightmare, she realised with a start.

Looking at them all in turn once more, she knew then that they were each of them demons, each and every one of them, taking the forms of Hawke's family in the most horrific way he remembered them, gruesome and contorted, sickly and twisted. This torment was out of control... but she was helpless to stop it.

In comparison, Carver appeared to be overjoyed at his parents' words, giggling madly to himself whilst shifting in his seat to point into a darkened corner of the room with a gnarled arm. "You hear that, Garrett?! I'm the favourite son, now! Snivel all you want; you were never happier than when that ogre crushed me into the dirt, and now, oh, how the mighty have fallen!"

"How could he have let my baby boy charge that ogre on his own?" Leandra grieved openly, wailing, "Oh, my sweet Carver..."

"Don't forget, Mother," he answered her soothingly, craning his broken neck in her direction, "he let you die at the hands of that dirty necromancer. But we're all together again, and that's the way it's going to stay. Forever."

Peering into the darkened corner, Cassandra slowly made her way across the room and searched the shadows for any signs of Hawke. Around her, the whole family stood up one by one, intense eyes focused on her as they watched her suspiciously. Feeling the tension rise exponentially, she lowered herself down and balanced on the balls of her feet, her hands placed gently on her knees. "Hawke...?" She uttered quietly, fear beginning to eek into her voice.

He was barely visible, nothing more than a shadow himself, but she could just make out the outline of his frail body, sitting against the corner with his legs pulled tightly to his chest. His left temple rested on his knees, facing the Seeker but not quite seeing her, just as she had trouble seeing him. "Hawke," she called to him again as the demons began to close in on her, "you must get yourself out of here..."

Hawke stared blankly ahead, seemingly unable to hear her through the layers that separated them. He was in the Fade physically, whereas she was only present within her own mind, a barrier between them that she could not hope to penetrate. Whether she could effectively communicate with him was unknowable. "Do you hear me, Champion?"

"C-can't leave," he answered her in a distant voice, sounding muffled and weak. "...I've always been here..."

"I have heard enough," Malcolm boomed, bending down and hooking his slick, mottled arms under hers, hoisting her roughly to her feet and holding her hands behind her back, preventing her from reaching her sword. "You're no longer welcome in my house! _Get out_!"

"Hawke!" Cassandra cried out as Carver dove to take her legs. She kicked him in the face hard enough to send his head in the other direction, the sickly crack of his shattered spine chilling her to the bone.

"Listen to me, Hawke - Anders is coming to free you! Please, for the love of the Maker, hold on and he will find you!"

"That murderer is _dead,_ just like the rest," Leandra snarled in her face. "Garrett didn't save him from the Calling, and he didn't save my daughter, either!"

"They're _alive,_ Hawke - they're lying to you! You saved them! Do not listen to these demons!"

 _"Get her out of here,"_ Garrett Hawke howled out a heartbreaking sob, burying his face in his hands and clawing at his eyes. "I killed them! _I killed them all!"_

"That you did," Malcolm hissed menacingly, dragging the warrior kicking and screaming out of the family cottage. "Do not strain yourself, my son. We will protect you from the likes of those who would try to separate you from your loving family."

"Get _off_ of me! _No!"_

**~oOo~**

_It was late into the night when the insistent pounding at the front door startled the Knight-Captain out of her sleep. She was still sitting at her writing desk, having dozed off after combing through her records to look for clues. Peeling off the parchment stuck to her cheek, she rose from her armchair and peered out of her bedroom doorway, grabbing a candle in hand as she walked through the sitting room and lit the slow-burning wicks as she passed them one by one._

_She glanced up at the clock above the mantle. One o'clock in the morning, almost bang on the dot. Either her visitor was the Night Guard come to take her downtown again for questioning in order to force a confession out of her, or it was some hired sword come to save everyone the hassle of a trial. With that in mind, she opened the drawer of her antique bureau and placed her hand on the hilt of her dagger. If she was about to meet her assassin, she wasn't going down without a fight. She'd lasted too long through this whole ordeal to let some Carta gang with no sense and something to prove take her down that easily._

_The pounding only grew more persistent, louder as whoever was on the other side grew ever more impatient with her. Of course, why_ wouldn't _she want to let a potential killer into her home? The Knight-Captain had always assumed these thugs were smarter than to just announce their presence like this, but her line of work had a unique way of making her overestimate these criminal-types. She was always giving the bad guys too much credit. Really, they were just as stupid as they appeared to be. You'd_ have _to be, to break the law on her watch._

_It was difficult to peer through the peep hole, what with the door vibrating with every slam of her visitor's fist against the hard wood, but the light of the gas lanterns outside illuminated a shockingly familiar face, one she never in a million years expected to see. With a nervous hand and a racing heart, she dropped the dagger on the entryway table, removed the heavy chain, unlocked the door, and disarmed the flame trap she'd set up especially for intruders, shaking visibly as she turned the handle and pulled the door open cautiously._

_He barged in unceremoniously, and the first thing she noticed was the gin. The man absolutely wreaked to high heaven of the stuff. If she hadn't disarmed that trap, he might have exploded and blown the stone archway to pieces. Stumbling around in the sitting room, he plopped down on her chaise lounge and attempted to sit up, brushing a hand through his chestnut hair as though he could pass himself off as sober at this point. He couldn't._

_"Guardsman," the Knight-Captain greeted him disapprovingly, "Do you have any idea what time it is?"_

_"Yes," he rasped, his voice clearly hoarse from disuse and a night spent drinking alone at the local tavern. "It's time to confess."_

_A dubious red brow shot up at his statement, and it wasn't long before she once again became her usual bristly and authoritative self. "If you're here to confess to not showing up for your shift tonight in favour of copious amounts of alcohol, I'm well aware of that. I wrote the roster for this week, Guardsman. Don't think for a minute that I don't have it memorised."_

_He stared up at her dumbly, his eyes clearly tired and his body on the verge of succumbing to a blackout, if he wasn't already having one. "Yes, you are a rather clever woman - ser... I should have known that about you, Knight-Captain. But that's not exactly what I wanted to confess... It's about what you said on the stand."_

_Straightening, she raised her chin high and did her best to appear as though she stood before him in full gleaming armour instead of the long, silky red robe she had donned for bed. "I don't know what you're talking about. This is highly inappropriate of you to barge into your superior's home stinking drunk at this hour."_

_"Is it?" He said as if not understanding his own impropriety. "It was the only way I could get the courage to come here... Sorry if I've offended you, Knight-Captain. Did I disturb you?"_

_Curiosity got the better of her own nervousness as she eyed him like a nug spotting a potential wrangler from a distance. "Guardsman," she crossed her arms protectively over her chest, "whatever you're going to say regarding what happened at the hearing, we don't need to speak of it. Ever._ Trust _me," she fidgeted from one foot to the other, keeping her eyes on the floor rug, "I've dealt with my... ill-advised feelings, and have moved on from them. It was unprofessional and outright disgraceful of me to entertain such idle thoughts about one of my subordinates. If I embarrassed you at the hearing, I can only offer my apologies and my sincerest assurances that it will not happen again."_

_She could hear the ticking of her mantle clock as the seconds passed by in uncomfortable silence, the drunken fool doing his damnedest to control his subtle swaying. "Oh," he said at last, clearing his throat and rising to his feet slowly. "I'm sorry you feel that way, ser... You see... I lied on the stand, that day."_

_Unable to stop the widening of her eyes in time, she glanced away suddenly and fought to regain her composure. "You committed perjury?" The Knight-Captain breathed, astounded at the admission of guilt. "Under_ oath _? During_ my _hearing?"_

_"Yes," he nodded, taking a step toward her tentatively._

_"Do you have any idea how much trouble you could be facing for lying on the stand?" She whispered as though the walls themselves had ears._

_Smiling sadly, he held his hands out to her, his palms upturned as he took another slow, sauntering step and closed the distance between them. "Not as much as I thought I would have faced, had I declared my love for my commanding officer in front of those who might possibly strip me of my rank."_

_He took her trembling hands in his own, so warm and calloused. The hands of a strong, hard-working guard. She could hardly believe she was hearing him right. "You don't mean that," she stammered, quivering as he brought his arm around her to rest a hand on the small of her back. "You're not feeling well, and you - you don't know what you're saying."_

_"But I do," he protested softly, bringing her hand to his mouth and brushing his lips delicately against her fingers. "How I have always longed to tell you of these emotions I carry like a brick in my guts, a swelling in my bosom, my Knight-Captain. How I yearned to confess my secret and tell you all, to run my hands through your long, fiery hair and hold you to me in my arms, but I could not allow myself the pleasure of believing you felt the same... Not until that day. And even then, Maker, I was a weak man. I left the courtroom then so that I might breathe the free air, give voice to my greatest joy being realised. Oh, but had you just delivered one of those beautiful letters to me, I would have given you all that you desired and more!"_

_"Guardsman," her voice caught in her throat, tears beginning to sting her eyes, "You are drunk, and..."_

_"I am. I wish I could have done this properly, with a level head and a sound mind. It's all a woman as wonderful as you deserves, but damn my cursed nerves, I was still so bloody terrified that you would spurn my affections! ...Please, Knight-Captain," he pleaded gently, tracing her lips with the tip of his thumb, caressing her cheekbone, running the tips of his fingers down her freckled neck, "don't turn me away now... I know in my heart of hearts that it would destroy me forever..."_

_She didn't know she was about to do what she did until it simply happened, and before she could think twice about it, her rosy lips locked with his. The Guardsman breathed deeply, holding her so possessively, as if he still feared she might turn about-face and reject him in this moment of sheer bliss. Her heaving bosom pressed firmly against his armour, and she reached a hand down to undo the stays at his side holding the steel in place._

_Surprised at her forwardness, but not unpleasantly so, he moved clumsily to discard the chest plate, tossing it with a loud clang against the wood floor as he again pressed her to him and swept her up into his arms. "My Knight-Captain," he mumbled between passionate kisses, breathing heavily as he held her to him like a prized jewel._

_"What is it now, Guardsman?" She panted, ready for anything he might throw at her._

_Sheepishly, he grinned and attempted to suppress his giddy laughter like an unskilled virgin on his wedding night. "I don't quite know which direction I'm going. Where is your bedroom?"_

"Oh, this is just nauseating," Varric commented dryly as he finished proofreading the scene, running a pensive finger over his chin as he set his quill in the inkwell to rest. "The Seeker's gonna love it."

The gurney in front of him rustled as the Seeker stirred in her sleep, and he winced, covering his mouth after assuming his absent-minded commentary had disturbed her from her dreams. Quietly, he set the parchments down on the desk and rose from the wooden chair, tip-toeing past her sleeping form to fetch another log for the fire in an attempt to keep her comfortable and warm so she could drift peacefully off again. Still tossing and turning, Cassandra whimpered behind him as he used the iron poker to clear the way for the dry wood in his hand, sighing as he squinted against the heat radiating from the red hot remnants of the last one he'd added an hour or two ago.

"Please... hold on..."

Cocking his head slightly to tune his hearing, Varric paused in his movements, cautious of her tone as her breathing quickened. He'd done his best to understand the mechanisms of dreams, and he thought he had a pretty good grasp of the concept due to his storytelling background, but when people _talked_ in their sleep, it was harder for him to work out how exactly that happened.

"Don't...listen...demons...!"

Well, this was getting spooky fast. She must have been having a nightmare of some variety. Not knowing the best thing to do for her, he bent lower and nestled the log next to the burning embers, fanning it gently as he watched closely to make sure the wood would catch -

 _"No!"_ Cassandra screamed in horror.

He jumped nearly out of his skin and straightened as fast as he could manage, only to catch the back of his head on the underside of the mantle, banging it forcefully with a loud  _thwack!_ His hands shot up to the soreness, simultaneously spinning on his heel and wincing in pain as he tried to work out what the hell was happening. " _Ouch_ ," he grunted, rubbing the spot behind his hair tie. "Shit, that hurts! I think I split my head open again!"

Cassandra sat upright on the gurney, terror flitting across her eyes as she blinked rapidly, trying desperately to make sense of the situation herself. Apparently, she was unable to speak, which didn't surprise him a bit; she probably cracked her voice box on that last one. Panicking, she started to throw the blankets to the floor and toss her legs over the side.

"Whoa, whoa, hang on. Give yourself a minute," Varric insisted, placing his hand on her shoulder as much to comfort her as to keep her from running. "You're awake now. This is the real part, Seeker. We're in the infirmary wing. It's still early hours, yet, so there's no rush to go anywhere..." Steadying his own nerves with his little talk, he let out a breath and tried to get her to focus on his eyes. "You feeling alright? That sounded like you got a pretty good scare."

She met his concerned eyes and, slowly but surely, the frantic worry in her expression faded to one of bleak sorrow, though she struggled to suppress the emotion from her face entirely. Eventually she lowered her head and exhaled loudly, reaching up to place her hand over his. "I'm fine," she obviously lied, a note in her voice telling him immediately that he shouldn't pry. "Thank you, Varric. I... I don't know what came over me."

"No big deal" he reassured her, squeezing her shoulder before pulling away and walking back to the desk. "You were bound to have strange dreams after staying awake for so long. Or, so I'm told."

Rubbing her head in an effort to wake herself further, she asked groggily, "How long have I been out?"

Varric shrugged. "A long time. We hit the hay fairly early. I'd say you got about twelve hours, more or less."

"Ugh," she scoffed gutturally, "it feels like less... You awoke before me?"

"Some people require less beauty sleep than others to get by."

She let out a soft laugh and carefully rose from the gurney, searching for and finding her obsidian boots next to the bedside chair. "If that is the standard we are using, you must be an insomniac."

"Ouch! That smarts more than my poor aching head," he smirked, stacking his parchments and stowing them away in his rucksack. "Can I use that for my book?"

"Take it," she waved away the request as she secured the rest of her armour. "I think I will go to the chapel for a time and... prepare my mind for the day ahead."

His brow furrowing in consternation, Varric sat down on the surface of the desk, one leg still touching the floor for balance as he reached over and retrieved Bianca and a bottle of clear oil. "Can I ask you something, Seeker? It's always puzzled me."

"What is it, Varric?" She asked, turning back briefly with her hand still on the door.

"If the Maker is with us wherever we go," he started, pulling a fine cloth from his pouch and sprinkling it with oil, "why do people go to the Chantry and chapels to pray to Him? Why not just pray anywhere? He can still hear you just as much - or as little."

Her hand dropped away from the door as she thought carefully. "Well... Yes, I suppose you have a point. And I do pray when there isn't a chapel immediately available, as happens often in our travels, but... It is something I do out of respect for Him, whenever I am able. I can feel His light filling my soul, there, rejuvenating my spirit. I personally feel closer to Him when I am in His house."

Varric suppressed a dark-humoured laugh and shrugged dismissively. "Yeah, the people in the _Kirkwall_ Chantry certainly got close to the Maker."

"Is that why you don't go yourself?" Cassandra probed with a surprised interest. "Because of Anders' actions?"

"No, I never did set a foot inside one if I could avoid it, even before Blondie's bright idea," he confessed, shining the immaculate wood surfaces of his weapon. "I never really was the church-going type. Besides, there aren't a whole lotta Andrastian dwarves in Thedas. When you don't want to be found in a crowd for whatever reason, it helps to be able to blend in - not really possible for a man of my 'stature' in a Chantry."

"Hmm," she pondered this, nodding her understanding. "Makes sense. If you had attended services regularly, it would have made tracking you down a hell of a lot easier."

"I like to present a challenge to those seeking me out. Keeps life interesting."

"You certainly do that," she rolled her eyes, turning back to the door and laying her hand on the knob. "Almost daily."

"I'm flattered, Seeker," he nodded his goodbyes, saluting her as she opened the door - only to find a visibly startled Inquisitor Lavellan standing like a cornered rabbit on the other side.

"Oh!" Lavellan crossed her frozen hands, trapping them under her arms for warmth. Someone really ought to make that girl a damn coat; that silk finery of hers was doing her no favours way out here. "Hey guys! Glad you're awake. How are you feeling, Varric?"

"Better, thanks for asking, Inquisitor," he waved lamely at her, trading a bewildered look with Cassandra as she shook her head. "What, uh... can we do for you?"

"Oh, I just wanted to come check on you," she stood in the doorway awkwardly, not knowing whether she was coming or going. "We're packing up to head out for Adamant, soon, and we just wondered if... well, if you were planning on coming...? So we know whether to pack more provisions, I mean."

Sitting up straight, Varric shifted Bianca on his lap and scratched at his neck as he tried to recover from that bit of news. He hadn't realised they'd be on the move to get it over with so soon. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think... I should probably be there. Thanks for the invite, Inquisitor."

She looked around, avoiding his misting eyes as she nodded her acceptance. "It's grim, I know, but I just thought -" Lavellan visibly winced, her left hand clenching into a fist under her arm as green light shone from beneath the fabric. "Well - never mind. I'll leave you - to it."

Halting her departure, Cassandra hurriedly added in concern, "Is something wrong with your mark, Inquisitor?"

"Oh, no, it's nothing," she shook her head, hunching in on herself slightly. "It's just the anchor's sometimes a little - No it's _fine_ , really," she quickly reassured them as the pair shot each other alarmed glances. "Don't worry about it. This happens sometimes, but - Solas knows a good healing spell, and it's always - perfectly fine after a single treatment... Really, Cassandra," she nodded emphatically, "I'm okay, I just need to get back to bed so Solas can -"

Lavellan placed her good hand over her mouth and froze in a momentary panic, her eyes darting between them to see if they'd caught her slip. "Er... I need to... _find_ him and ask him to... do the thing... to my mark. Yeah... All right, then." And without another awkward, stumbling word, the Herald of Andraste herself shuffled out of the room and closed the door firmly behind her, the proverbial tail tucked between her legs.

Varric couldn't help but laugh, rubbing his temples in exasperation. "Is she still under the false impression that nobody has a clue about them?"

"Apparently so," the Seeker smirked gently, clearly amused, but not interested in gossiping about the Hedge Mage and the Inquisitor.

"Sheesh," he muttered dryly, going back to polishing Bianca, "they must think we're fools."

"I don't know about Solas," the warrior put in bluntly, "but the Inquisitor is not the greatest at keeping private things to herself - my obsession with _Swords and Shields_ being the best example I can recall. Be warned: never trust her with a secret. Everyone will know within the hour."

Frowning to himself, Varric's heart quickened in his exposed chest as he oiled the chains and metal components of Bianca before giving her a final wipe-down, preparing to gauge Cassandra's reaction to his next voiced thought: "You know, we should show 'em how it's done. I bet we could make a better job of it."

Blinking in confusion, the Seeker shook her head, brows nearly coming together on her forehead. "How _what_ is done? What could we do better?"

"...Keep a scandalous secret under wraps."

Her eyelids lifted for the briefest of moments, but she corrected the slip just as quickly. "I'm not sure I follow you," she deflected the dwarf's words, clearly lying through her perfect white teeth.

He resolved to let the suggestion fall by the wayside, playing it off as though he was speaking nonsense. _"Bah,_ nothin'. Ignore me - I haven't had my morning ale, yet."

Clearly itching to get out of the room as fast as possible to avoid the palpable discomfort, Varric waved the Seeker away as if to indicate he was done with her, and she readily took advantage of the opening to escape out into the icy corridor, a few select prayers likely ready to go as soon as she reached the chapel.

"Well," he sighed to himself, staring at the closed door and rising to gather the many blankets strewn about the warm room, "that probably could have gone a bit better."


	11. Dispensing Justice

The Seeker was doing her damnedest to make as much noise as possible at her guard post in front of the condemned man's tent, sliding her sharpening stone along the edge of her long blade to drown out the spirited debate taking place around the campfire. She could only pray that Anders had long-since fallen asleep as the mages devolved into an all-out cat fight about who could be the most self-righteous.

"Oh, don't be so idealistic, my dear. For one not fond of believing in absolutes, you certainly paint an unambiguous picture of the conflict in which we're presently involved."

Solas' eye began to twitch, and not for the first time this evening. "Once _more,_ Vivienne: I am not trying to pigeon-hole each and every mage and templar into simplistic categories of victim and perpetrator. Do not mistake my passion on this issue for naivety. Coexistence has worked well before; I have seen it, myself. It can be done without all of the needless persecution and paranoia of becoming the latest Tevinter, which are largely unfounded fears drummed up by the Chantry."

"Except that Tevinter _exists,_ Solas, and only goes to prove the Chantry's argument against letting mages have more power with which to subjugate the non-mage classes."

Dorian sighed and leaned back, arms crossing over his chest as he shook his head at the stars above. "You know, I do wish you southerners would stop portraying my home as some _great evil_ , as though every other kingdom and country in Thedas is perfect and without need of some reform. And this strange notion that we mages have total control over our lives is pure bollocks!" He lowered his eyes, arching a dangerous brow over the fire at them. "Why do you think I left? Because everything was all _roses and sunshine_ for me as a mage?"

Vivienne turned her gaze to the side in such a way as to imply he wasn't worthy of acknowledgement, but stated coolly, "You'll not soon convince me to change my tune regarding Tevinter, Dorian. Having been raised there, you could never hope to see your country for what it truly is due to your heavily-indoctrinated patriotism."

"That's odd. I thought having spent the majority of my life there would offer sorely-needed perspective in these parts. We're not _all_ slavers and blood mages bent on taking over the world."

"Says the magister," she smiled, her tone drenched in biting sarcasm.

" _Altus,_ Vivienne, I'm an _altus!_ There _is_ an actual difference between - Oh, why do I even bother at this point?" He rose in exasperation to dump his cold tea near a rock in the sand, rolling his eyes as he sighed out his mounting frustration and struggled to control his anger.

Cassandra stole a quick glance through a gap in the tied flaps of the tent, telling herself that it was only to be sure Anders was still within and had not escaped out the back. In truth, she did this to check whether he was awake and alert - and indeed he was. He had continuously found it difficult to sleep as they drew nearer to the Western Approach, his increasingly severe nightmares pushing a restful night impossibly out of reach.

"Is something wrong, Lady Seeker?" He asked quietly, concern in his tired voice. "Do you need me to help with anything?"

Anders' propensity to be helpful on this long death march was as irksome as his tendency to make eye contact with her. She had not yet engaged him in any conversation he attempted to initiate, and she wasn't about to start now. "Sleep, Anders. Tomorrow will be a trying day." Releasing the red cloth from her grip, she picked up her stone and leaned over her sword again, determined to cover the growing voices of dissent to her right with the singing of steel.

"...should save your breath, Dorian. Though I do not share in your fondness for the Imperium, she will not be swayed by reason and evidence."

"I don't know if you're aware, Solas darling, but a glimpse in the Fade of an ancient society that may have once thrived hardly constitutes as solid evidence of a viable system. Clearly it is _not_ sustainable, or you would not be arguing to raise it from the grave. The past is in the past, where it belongs; that is the order of things. _I_ prefer to look to the future."

The elf could no longer sit still, instead getting up from his rock near the campfire to pace, hands clasped tightly behind his back. "Yes, go right ahead and knowingly elect to subject yourself to a broken system, set up nearly a _thousand_ years ago during a time of intense suspicion of all things magical in nature. How very forward-thinking of you! Excuse me while I marvel at your profound callousness toward your fellow mages, using their continued subjugation to your advantage so you can live in luxury as those around you suffer for simply wanting to be _free_ to live their own lives."

"What you perceive as callousness, my dear, I see as a calculated strategy to ease the conditions under which my fellow circle mages are bound, through both being a shining example and by applying subtle suggestion to those with the power to sway toward our benefit." It seemed that her time immersed in the Great Game kept Madame de Fer from losing her cool, though all her nonchalant attitude accomplished here was to foster aggravation in their other allies. "In the end, we are all here to see that this war concludes in our favour. I have sacrificed many worldly comforts to put my skills to good use for this cause; do not be so contemptuous simply because you had no comforts of your own to lay aside."

Solas glared intensely in her direction, and Cassandra leaned up in preparation to intervene as he stood defiantly before the woman, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "And that is the key difference between you and I. Your - "

The elven woman thundered past Cassandra as though a dark cloud followed her wherever she went. Storming toward the campfire, she plunked a wooden bucket of water down, standing between Solas and Vivienne, the flames in her eyes not merely a reflection. "What is _wrong_ with you?!" She seethed under her breath, gesturing at the tent the Seeker guarded. "You want to have this argument _right now?_ Can't you at _least_ wait until 'he's' gone?"

Cassandra's eyes darted to the furthest tent across the way as Sera's high-pitched voice taunted from within, " _Ha ha_ , Inky told you mage-y arsehats where to shove it!"

Sighing, Dorian rubbed his tired eyes and tentatively lifted the bucket at Lavellan's feet. "Sorry, Inquisitor. We tend to get carried..." He paused as a thought occurred to him, cocking his head to the side and furrowing his brows in interest. "Well now, you're a mage who might offer a different perspective on this, Lavellan. Whose side would you support in this debate?" He asked curiously, a smirk turning his mouth gently. "Do say mine."

Rolling his eyes, Solas shot Vivienne a stern look. "The point is - and it is the last thing I shall say on the matter," he added as he watched Lavellan stiffen angrily in his peripheral vision, "that _sometimes,_ action must be taken that _is_ regrettable, but in the end is the only available means to affect positive change in a world gone mad."

"And you have the nerve to call _me_ callous," Vivienne rose from her seat, brushing sand from her shimmering leggings. "Your dismissal of atrocities is truly abhorrent."

 _"I - "_ Lavellan jerked as she suppressed an outburst and massaged her fingertips against her temples. "Okay, _deep_ breaths, Lavellan... Time for a shift change. Solas, Vivienne, Dorian, you're all calling it a night."

"Oh," Dorian smiled, his well-groomed brows shooting up in amusement, "we're being put in the naughty corner! Serves us right, I suppose, for driving mummy completely mental."

"I get it, you're all tired - _clearly_ \- and frankly, _we're_ tired of having to listen to you," the Inquisitor grumbled, taking the water bucket from his hand and setting it near the kettle. " I want Blackwall, Sera, and Cole out here in the next five minutes."

"Right then," Sera's voice answered somewhat dejectedly at realizing she'd have to spend a long shift with the spirit boy, "out in a sec, Quizzy."

"I am here. I'm always here," Cole answered out of nowhere, appearing suddenly by the fireside, dark, sinister clouds cascading down and dispersing at the ground around his boots. Dorian and Solas shot a glance between them, the two men startled, but not truly surprised to discover that Cole had been present for the duration of their shift. Glaring almost imperceptibly, Vivienne made her way to one of the tents, presumably to wake a snoring Blackwall and steal the warmth of his cot.

The Inquisitor shook her head, sighing loudly as she trudged through the sand to her side, and Cassandra lowered her eyes and resumed running her sharpening stone over the razor edge of her sword.

"Did he hear any of that?" Lavellan mouthed quietly, pointing needlessly at the tent flap.

Turning her face up, the Seeker gave the Dalish a look that said more than she could convey with words, for she was not a woman who was known for her fabulous communication skills, and she saw the elf read her thoughts plainly enough. Running a worried hand over her face, Lavellan nodded in acceptance and cleared her throat. "I suppose it's a good sign he hasn't burned the tent down around him. Still, I did call for a shift change, Cassandra, and that means you, too. Wake the Commander to relieve you and get a good night's rest in before the morning."

"What about you?" Cassandra asked in a low tone, her own exhaustion deepening her voice. She pocketed her stone and rose to her feet, sheathing her sword as softly as she could manage.

Lavellan attempted a weary smile, but it only served to highlight the bags of fatigue forming beneath her eyes. So the Inquisitor would not be sleeping this night, it seemed. Perhaps the weight of the day ahead was filling her with too much anxiety to sleep soundly. Making no mention of these thoughts, the Seeker nodded at her silent reply and walked the short distance to the tent adjacent to Anders', where Cullen and Varric had taken their leave after dusk had fallen over the desert.

Cullen was an incredibly light sleeper for a man that required much more of it than others to recover from the mental and physical strains put upon him daily, and it took only the removal of her obsidian boots and the ghost of a touch to his ankle to rouse the man almost completely. He inhaled deeply, rising automatically without word to slide his chest plate over his tunic and slip his signature cloak over his shoulders to stave off the night chill, bending to retrieve his shining boots.

Before he left the rudimentary shelter, Cassandra laid a hand on his forearm and whispered, "The Inquisitor is about to brew more coffee. Take it when it is offered and stay alert. They're at it again."

"Oh, Andraste's Blood," the Commander sighed sleepily, "will I forever be the babysitter of squabbling mages?"

Smirking gently, she patted his shoulder companionably. "No rest for the wicked."

Breathing out a rueful chuckle, Cullen parted the tent flaps and stepped out to begin his shift on guard of the prisoner. As he left, she unfastened her own plate armour and laid it down carefully at the foot of the now-available cot, which was hopefully still quite warm. She left on only her light tunic and leggings, kneeling down and turning over the blanket to crawl luxuriously inside, careful not to disturb the dwarf lying on his back to her left, his hands resting one over the other on his abdomen. She sighed with a mix of fatigue and relief, turning Cullen's pillow to the cool side before lowering her head on the down feathers.

"They can't help themselves, Seeker. Blondie's mere presence here is reinvigorating the debate."

Her eyes shot open to the dim light provided by the fire in the middle of camp, the distant flames flickering over the red canvas . "You could have just said you were awake. I went to a lot of trouble not to disturb you."

Varric shrugged, a movement that had become much easier over the last few days of travelling. "It's much more fun to see what lengths you'll go to. Besides, wouldn't want to spoil the surprise reveal too early."

She shifted herself on her side to face him, their cots half a meter apart on the floor. "It's true, the mages were fighting, but the Inquisitor handled them and they settled fairly easily. No need to be concerned; I am certain she has calmed the situation for the moment."

He sighed and lifted a hand to the bridge of his formerly broken nose, massaging the bridge between thumb and forefinger. "All this rebellion shit really stirred the proverbial pot... You think you know a guy to the point where you can predict what he's gonna do in any given situation, and then he does the exact opposite of what you expect... The compassionate healer becomes the unforgiving mass murderer - that's a twist I never saw coming, and I write about mislaid trust and ultimate betrayal for a living. Then, everyone's at each others' throats for years, and before you know it, he's literally at your _own_ throat out of nowhere... and I can't even bring myself to..."

Frowning, Cassandra leaned up on an elbow and studied his face, or what she could make of it in the poor lighting provided to her. "Is something troubling you?" She prodded seriously, noting the blank look on his tired, stubbly face.

"Eh," he muttered half-heartedly, sounding as though he didn't know where to start with such a loaded question, "it's...complicated, Seeker. In short, I feel like a damned coward."

The admission surprised her. "You have done nothing cowardly that I have seen. At least not lately," she amended, unable to help taking a small dig at him even now.

The casual back-handedness with which they treated each other barely got a rise anymore, and was instead evolving into something more endearing than bitter, as it had once been between them. Knowing this, he let the comment slide with no more acknowledgement than a slight smirk at the corner of his scabbed lip. "Back in the dungeon in Emprise du Lion, I distinctly remember telling Blondie that I'd talk to him again, but...so far I've been making up every excuse in the book not to."

"No one expects you to simply pretend nothing has happened," Cassandra consoled him. "Despite the excuses made on his behalf, Anders still hurt you. You would be completely justified if you chose to never speak to that abomination again, and know that I would support you in your decision. I myself have barely spoken to him aside from what I have had need to say."

Varric sighed, letting the air out of his lungs in a slow mental purging of destructive thoughts. "I know, but he wasn't your friend once upon a time... If I don't say something,  _anything_ to him _,_ I might regret it in my old age..." He turned his head to face her in the darkness. "See? Told ya. Complicated."

Filled with sympathy for his dilemma, Cassandra lowered her head to the pillow and traded with him a rare, small smile. "We should try to rest before the dawn robs us of a chance to sleep at all, tonight."

She closed her eyes in the following silence that ensued, and felt the hands of slumber descend upon her form, its fingers lulling her into a dulling of sound and sensation as her mind slipped softly into that otherworldly state of being.

"Do you, uhm," Varric's voice coaxed her back suddenly, causing her to jerk slightly as she awoke to the tent around her again. It was difficult to focus, but he appeared shifty as his eyes darted back and forth from her face to his shaking hand - or perhaps that was her usual suspicious nature mislabelling the expression. Perhaps what she actually saw was nervousness. "I don't mean this the way it's going to sound, Seeker, but... Would it be better for you if I slept a little closer, tonight? It's just that your nightmares sound like they've been getting worse."

That was not an offer Cassandra had expected in the slightest. Why would it make any difference to her nightmares how close or far away the dwarf was to her sleeping form? It seemed ridiculous to her that he would even suggest this as some form of aid. But then it hit her: He really _hadn't_ meant it the way it had sounded. Varric was not offering to move closer as a service rendered, nor even a security measure against her fretful dreams. There was something else to be gained for him in this proposal. Nothing perverse or malicious, but strangely more personal: comfort.

Not being able to dream himself, perhaps Varric believed that being near her as she dreamt of Hawke in the Fade was as close to his old friend as he would ever be again... And not only that, but he also sought someone to hold, to feel guarded against his own distressing emotions. Finding it difficult to sleep under these grievous circumstances, he needed the touch of another, however benign, in order to be calm enough to cope and drift off to sleep. If Varric could protect her against something he had no true power to control, then perhaps he believed she could do the same for him.

And he was either too ashamed to admit this, or believed that she would laughingly refuse if he was honest with her.

"...I suppose that would be helpful, if nothing else but to wake me as soon as the nightmare begins in earnest... But I only require this for tonight. Our business will conclude after tomorrow, and I should be fine once we head back for Skyhold."

"Sure. Just thought I'd offer... " He nodded once, leaning upright to slide the edge of his cot against her own. As he settled again, his bare, muscular arm draped over her waist, hand resting against the wool blanket in front of her, but she made no protest to this gesture. In fact, it felt oddly comforting for her, too.

"Night, Seeker."

She closed her eyes and listened to the crackle of the fire in the distance, catching the soft voices of conversation on the wind as his breath warmed the back of her neck. "Sleep, Varric... Tomorrow will be a trying day."

**~oOo~**

Anders sat under the shade of a boulder with a sense of disquietude as the Herald of Andraste herself stood nearby, watching him poke over the bounty laid out before him: a selection of four cheeses, dried meats, a torn hunk of bread with an orange preserve spread, and a canteen of the coolest water available in the barren wastes of the Western Approach. Around him, the chosen few that had accompanied the leader of the Inquisition on her journey south-west snacked on simple rations as they watered their horses and beasts of burden, talking amongst one another and trying their best to shield themselves from the scorching desert heat.

Anders assumed she anticipated a word of gratitude from him, but risking a glance upward to read the woman's expression, her features unexpectedly read otherwise. Instead, what he found there behind her prominent Dalish tattooing was something resembling curiosity, as though she had a question in mind to ask him or a thought she yearned to put forward. The whole thing struck him as odd; not one person had approached him to converse for the three days it had taken them to journey through Orlesian territory. In fact, the only ones whom had traded words with Anders thus far were Commander Cullen and Seeker Cassandra, and that was merely to inform him of a change in direction or when they would be setting up camp for the night. So to have the Inquisitor herself standing before him, obviously wondering how to engage in a dialogue with a condemned apostate, was perturbing at best.

She threw a quick look over her shoulder as if searching for support from someone, but Anders didn't find anyone standing in that particular direction. Confused by this, and also wanting to give her the opening she so desperately needed, he cleared his throat and took a cautious sip from the canteen. "Thank you for this, uh, generous spread, Inquisitor, but... I don't think it was necessary. I would have been fine with more rations."

Lavellan wrung her hands briefly and bit her lower lip, glancing down at her boots as she lightly kicked the sand at her feet. "Well, to be honest, we actually packed the food especially for this, uh... leg of the journey."

"Oh?" Anders probed warily, his heart sinking noticeably at her words. "What leg would that be, exactly...?" Even as the question left his lips, her awkward expression told him precisely what she had meant, and her reluctant answer, though delivered with soft, sobering finality, was entirely expected:

"The last leg."

He didn't need to look to the horizon to know that the ancient dwarven fortress standing on the very edge of the Abyssal Rift now loomed like a dark cloud in the distance. Picking up the soft brown bread from his wooden plate, Anders understood all too clearly that what he had actually been given by the Inquisitor was his last meal.

A small feast, but a gracious one nonetheless.

"I see," he uttered hoarsely, his appetite drying up within him. "I've known this day was coming for a long time, Inquisitor... Now that it's finally here I... have mixed emotions, to say the least."

"I know," she empathised sincerely, which surprised him to a degree. The level of compassion coming from his executioner - in a sense - was something he hadn't anticipated, let alone that he'd assumed most, if not all, of those "escorting" him to the last place Hawke was seen alive were happy to watch him receive his comeuppance. Certainly the Imperial Enchantress accompanying the small band had made her undeniable pleasure at his impending sentence well-known. He'd once heard a Nevarran mage refer to the enjoyment derived from another's misfortune as "schadenfreude". Anders couldn't honestly admit that he wouldn't feel the same toward the gloating mage if their situations were reversed. She was the living embodiment of all he despised about the higher echelons of the Circle of Magi.

Anders sat upright in alarm as Inquisitor Lavellan lowered herself to the sands and sat across from him beneath the shade of the mountainous boulder towering at his back. "No, don't worry," she held her hands up before her calmly. "I just wanted to say a few things before leaving you to it, and I didn't think standing over you was a polite way to go about it."

He nodded cautiously, raising the water to his lips again. The liquid within had warmed considerably whilst resting next to him, but with the heavy shackles binding his wrists, he couldn't chill it again with an ice spell. As if sensing his train of thought, she laid a hand on the base of the canteen and tapped into her mana reserves to achieve the desired result. Lowering his head slightly in thanks, he drank greedily for a moment before exhaling loudly, bringing his attention back to the powerful woman showing more leniency than he ought to deserve.

"First, I wanted you to know that I'm not ignorant to what occurred a few years ago in Kirkwall," she started easily enough. "Though we Dalish typically elect to shut ourselves off from events that don't concern us directly, Clan Lavellan was based in the Free Marches, and we were of the opinion that being informed on human affairs was not only good for trade, but for politics, too. So I know about what you did, and what happened there as a result. I can't say I understand your rationality, but... you should know that I not only consider your sentence a mercy, but just punishment for your past crimes, as well."

Anders' brow furrowed slightly at her choice of words. "I know. I'm prepared to face the consequences of those actions, as I was when I first took them... But you're speaking in the past tense about your clan, Lady Inquisitor. Don't you still consider yourself one of them?"

Caught off-guard, Lavellan sat up slowly, her hands braced on her knees as she sighed quietly. "Ah... Well, I still consider myself a Lavellan, of course... But they're gone, now," she admitted with a catch in her voice. "My clan was wiped out some months ago... Even close relations with neighbouring humans couldn't spare them once I was named Inquisitor."

Taken aback himself, Anders fidgeted lightly with his gold earring and winced, unable to hide his sheer pity for the woman. "Oh... Then I am sorry for your loss..."

"...And I yours," she replied levelly. "In fact, that's exactly why I came to speak to you in private..."

He looked up again to meet her large elven eyes, full to the brim with remorse and the heavy weight of responsibility bestowed unto her. "Well... I don't see how what happened to Garrett could be considered your _fault,_ Inquisitor," he reassured her warily, unable to foresee where she was headed with all of this.

"So Varric didn't tell you, then," she sighed, brushing a nervous hand through her blonde, shoulder-length hair. "There's something I should apologise for, Anders... When Hawke, Warden Stroud and I finally reached the way out in the Fade that day, we were cut off from our escape at the last second by the Nightmare demon that ruled there, a gigantic monstrosity that we all immediately knew we had no hope of killing ourselves. We watched helplessly as Cassandra, Solas, and Varric escaped through the Rift, all of them believing we were right behind them... Stroud offered to distract the demon and allow us a chance to escape, but Hawke was having none of it, and put himself forward to spare Stroud, who Hawke insisted would be needed to help rebuild the Grey Wardens... So, I was ultimately left with a choice to make, regarding who would be coming home... and who would be left behind."

His breath robbed from him momentarily, Anders felt the enraged tug of Justice from within, full of fiery vengeance at her words, but the spirit within him was unbelievably held at bay. He had no idea how exactly Justice was kept from taking over - other than Cole's previous vague assurances that Justice wouldn't be able to take control of Anders wholly while the mysterious boy was nearby. Still, the heartache he felt at her revelation cut like a knife deep in his belly, the wound reopened and festering in his very soul.

"It was the most difficult decision I've ever had to make," Lavellan admitted quietly, "and I'm so sorry that I couldn't do better... Believe me, I know what it's like to lose everything you once cherished, to have that awful news delivered into your shaking hands... All in the form of something so innocuous as a letter..."

There were no words to describe his appreciation for her honest confession, nor the pain that it brought him to know that it could have turned out so differently, nor even the gratitude at her decision to allow him one final opportunity to reunite with the love that was taken from him that day.

"My only regret for you, Inquisitor," he managed to whisper through his despondency, "is that you cannot be given the chance to recover what was lost to you, as you have so graciously offered me... If there is anything left of your home, though, I do hope you are able to find it someday."

Pressing her lips to a fine line and resisting the sting of tears, the Inquisitor stood and brushed the sand from her trousers as she gently cleared her throat of the emotions that choked her. "I hope so, too," she agreed with a curt nod. "Rest assured, as well, that I will honour the allyship established with the rebel mages, and that the goals you fought to accomplish throughout your life will not die with you this day.

"Now, eat up, Anders... You're going to need every last bit of strength left in you to find Hawke."

He uttered a small thanks in response as she walked silently back toward her party to join them during their mid-morning meal. Taking her parting words to heart, he closed his misting eyes and held the cold canteen to his aching chest, knowing that the Inquisitor's direct promise of loyalty to the cause and her unearned, sincere compassion for his plight had granted him an immense sense of inner peace...

And, dare he even admit it, tranquillity.

**~oOo~**

If there was any place in all of Thedas he would rather never lay eyes on again, it was Adamant. No contest.

Varric kept his eyes cast strategically downward, walking through the scorching sands at a lumbering pace behind his friends as they silently approached the dilapidated stronghold. Even from this far off, he could see the extensive damage done to the stonework from their previous visit, when the Wardens had taken control and bunkered down with demons, all under Corypheus' watchful eye. The air felt different here, creepier and more sinister, but he didn't care to rationalise the change in atmosphere with talk about the Veil, as Solas did. For him, the dark feelings washing over him were more personal.

He shot a glance ahead, watching forlornly as Anders lifted his gaze high to fully take in the haunting structure. Only able to see the back of his head, Varric couldn't tell from this angle what the look on the condemned man's face expressed, but if it wasn't full of panic or dread, he'd have been shocked. Anxiety tied his intestines into intricate knots, pulling tightly at his guts, and his breathing came shallow and quick in his chest.

"You want to, but you don't. You should. It would be better."

Shaking his head, Varric scrunched his eyes shut tightly and gritted his teeth. "Not right now, Kid. I'm barely holding it together as it is."

Cole now walked next to him, as he probably had for Maker knew how long before he finally came into view. "Your thoughts are loud, Varric."

"Sorry," he sighed, keeping his voice low and hoping the Kid would do the same. The last thing he needed was for everyone to know what he was thinking in the moment. He'd much rather have a stiff drink than ever express something so personal. "I know what you're gonna say, and I appreciate you trying to ease the pain, but please... Don't. Just...don't."

"You want me to stay quiet, just as you are."

"Yep... That's what I want."

"Why?"

Varric stopped in his tracks as though the effort to explain himself left him unable to carry out other tasks, his heartbreak and conflicting emotions too strong to give voice. He cautiously glanced up again and, as if feeling eyes on his back, Anders turned his head to steal a glance behind him.

So much was written on his long, drawn face. Every paralysing fear, every lost resignation, every desolate hope was bared to Varric as their gazes locked from across the sands. The dwarf could have sworn he saw moisture beneath the man's honeyed eyes, and it wouldn't have fazed him considering the execution that was about to transpire, though it just as easily could have been a mirage. _Yeah. A mirage,_ Varric thought bitterly, chastising himself. _You don't really believe that. Talk to him, you chicken shit! You're in denial!_

"You are, but that's okay," Cole uttered in a ghostly whisper. "You should listen to yourself. It would be better. He would feel better. And you will, too."

The battered remnants of the high door loomed before him, shattered and splintered by Cullen's battering ram as though it had only happened yesterday. He watched practically outside himself as Tiny, Buttercup, and Hero passed through the archway, their weapons at the ready in the event that not all within the stone walls remained dead. The Seeker stood on guard at the broken doors as they scanned the first level, the four less argumentative mages tying up the beasts near the gate.

Then Curly turned to Blondie and wordlessly pulled out a large ring of keys from his rucksack, sifting through one after the other in search of the iron key that would unlock the shackles around the apostate's wrists.

Thoroughly surprising himself, Varric turned and walked away roughly twenty paces, uncorking a hidden flask from his pack and knocking back as many large gulps of brandy as his throat could withstand. Fully expecting the Kid to follow and press the issue, he glanced toward the party again as he sucked in a breath hoarsely - only to find Cole nowhere in sight. Whether he had simply disappeared, or was never actually there to begin with, Varric was unsure.

But it didn't matter... Because either way, he was right.

"Hold up," Varric called out, lifting a hand as his brows came together. He kept his eyes cast down and, after a handful of seconds passed in silence, all activity coming to a dead halt ahead, he heard the soft plodding through the sands as someone approached. He didn't dare meet their eyes at point blank range, in case a sliver of unguarded emotion was visible somewhere on his face. "Ah shit, come on, Varric" he reprimanded himself under his breath, sniffing hard and stuffing the flask back in an empty holster at his belt.

The dull shine of her obsidian boots was all he focused on as she spoke in hushed tones. "Varric, you do not have to say a word to him if you don't want to," she reminded him. "However, if you would like the opportunity, Cullen and I will wait just inside the gate and allow you a moment of privacy to say what you wish to him."

Varric's throat was raw, and a tear betrayed him as Cassandra laid the offer before him. Rubbing his gloves over his face to stave off further emotions escaping his walls, he nodded and placed his hands on his hips, pursing his lips and glaring in an attempt to harden his trembling features. "Okay," he managed to croak out his agreement, "I think I should... probably say goodbye... I didn't get the chance with Hawke, so... Yeah."

Placing a supportive hand on his shoulder, the Seeker gave him a knowing squeeze before leaving his side. "Send him over," she called out to Cullen, her voice firm and businesslike.

He heard the clinking of iron chains as the shackles were stored away, the prisoner now free to move as he so desired. Nobody believed Anders would attempt an escape at this point, and since there was nowhere for him to run, they were confident that he would do as he was told at this point in the journey.

His soft approach was quiet, but didn't go unnoticed. Varric tried to meet his friend's gaze, but the distraught look on the man in front of him was too much to take, tears springing up involuntarily. "Damn sand," Varric cursed, desperate to place the blame for his tears elsewhere. "Always getting in my eyes..."

Anders went to his knees slowly, resting on his heels as he sat before the dwarf. The man had worn his heart ever on his sleeve, and this moment was no different... Well, it was, but only due to the stark fact that now, there was more emotion pouring from him than Varric had ever witnessed previously. Respectfully, Anders waited in silence for his friend to break free of the catch in his throat, but it wasn't coming easy.

Finally, Varric gave up trying. "I can't say it, Blondie," he whispered gruffly.

Anders nodded, rubbing his fingers across his newly unbound, red wrists. "I know," he replied, his voice trembling slightly.

"I want to - trust me, I _really_ fucking want to," Varric all but laughed at his inability to get it out, "but - "

"I know," Anders interrupted, pressing his lips firmly together as a fresh tear spilled over his cheek and into his blond beard.

Varric didn't need to say the words, after all. Though he couldn't express them, it must have been obvious enough for Anders to guess their content. "Are you sure you can do this?" He asked bluntly, his eyes searching his friend's. "I mean, if I were in your shoes right now, I don't know how I would..."

A sad smile gave way on Anders' lips, and though he gave no direct answer, his bloodshot eyes said it all: _I don't really have a choice anymore, do I?_

Sniffing back the tears, Varric forced a smirk, trying to ease the pain, if only for a moment. "If you happen to see Justice when you get in there, tell him I said he's an asshole."

Laughing softly, Anders cast his eyes down to his lap and paused. "He says to tell you, _'I apologise for unjustly punishing the innocent, Varric Tethras.'"_

The dwarf bit his lip in acceptance, his next thought taking a bit more time to convey than he would have liked to admit. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, the pain there growing with every passing second. "...And if... no,  _when..._ you find Hawke," he amended himself, fighting against the tremor in his tone, "Tell him I'm so..." There was so much he wanted to say to Hawke, but the words choked off unbearably in his throat. Clearing it again, he tried once more. "Tell him - "

It refused to come out. Embarrassed at his lack of self-control, Varric let out ragged, torn sigh from his lungs, looking up to the blue sky above... It was such a beautiful day.

"...I will," Anders replied despite not receiving a message to pass on, his words soft and gentle.

His face contorting in grief, Varric glanced down again, his face shielded from view as he lifted a gloved hand to cover his brow. _"Promise_ me," Varric very nearly pleaded, lowering his hand and looking into Anders' piercing eyes.

"I promise, Varric..." He started and stopped a few times before the right sentiment reached his lips. "I wanted to thank you for every laugh we shared together in The Hanged Man... For every time you ever stuck up for me in a fight with templars... Every mercy you showed, every... undue kindness..." His Adam's apple bobbing on his neck, Anders raised a finger to his eye and caught his welling tears, wiping them with a shaking hand on the fur lining of his tattered robes. "I know I haven't always deserved it, but you have been a good friend to me, over the years..."

Closing his eyes against another rising tide, Varric felt despair pierce his heart in one final blow, the breath knocked from his chest. After everything they had been through, both good times and bad, it finally hit him that this was really goodbye... And it hit him hard. "Despite everything, Blondie," he admitted, not bothering to hide his sorrow any longer, "so have you."

Unable to say anything further, Anders gave Varric an encouraging smile, hoping that with a single look, he could cheer his old friend up and let him know that everything was going to be all right. He glanced toward the door behind him, and turned back, his brows raising questioningly as he moved slightly, indicating that they should enter the fortress before anyone grew suspicious.

Shaking his head, Varric bit his lip hard before answering, "You go on ahead... I don't think I can stomach to watch what comes next..." He felt weak for admitting it, but he had already been there as a Rift closed with a dear friend on the other side, trapping him forever behind the Veil. He couldn't bring himself to stand by and watch as it happened all over again. "I can't do it," he uttered, his voice breaking at the thought. "I didn't think I'd abandon you after getting this far, but... I'm sorry. I just can't..."

A long, sombre silence filled the desert air around them, and after a time, Anders placed his outstretched hand on Varric's shoulder, patting gently. "In that case, will you do me a favour while I'm gone?"

Varric's brows knitted together in confusion as he looked up and his expression softened as, unexpectedly, Anders removed a grey bundle of fur from the folds of his robe. "She's a girl, by the way," he uttered sadly, placing the little kitten in his calloused hands. "I do wish I could keep her, but... Garrett was always more of a dog person." Anders gave a final scratch behind her ear as a simple goodbye, adding hoarsely, "Mouse loves gravy, and she'll sleep anywhere you put her, so long as it's warm. You'll hardly notice she's there, so she won't be any trouble, and..."

Varric placed the sleepy creature in a loose pocket near his hip flask as Anders' instructions caught in his throat, accepting his new charge wordlessly. At least he would have something - or rather, someone - to remember him by. Before Anders could rise to leave him once and for all, Varric hopelessly raised his arms and stepped forward, embracing his old friend for the last time.

"I forgive you, Blondie," he whispered gratingly. "I forgive you..."

After that, the sobs they'd so bravely held back were beyond their control.

**~oOo~**

It was less than an hour later when Varric caught the metallic clanking of boots on the stone floor of Adamant Fortress, the first sound he'd heard apart from the horses munching away at their full feed bags. He didn't glance in her direction as she cast her gaze around the wide expanse of the wastes, the Abyssal Rift black and bottomless to her left. Varric would have signalled her to his location against the wall, but he hadn't the heart to call out to her. If anything, he didn't want her to see his heart splayed open as it was...

She caught sight of him just then, and he sighed softly, taking a swig of his brandy again as Mouse repositioned herself on his lap, kneading the silken fabric with her claws. Scratching her beneath her chin, the kitten nodded off to sleep once more, purring gently as she breathed.

"Are you all right?" The Seeker asked quietly, her voice as broken as he'd ever heard it.

He leaned his head back against the stone, staring at the sky and willing himself to breathe again. "Not right now," he uttered, biting the inside of his lip to keep his emotions at bay. "But eventually. I always bounce back, Seeker... You'll see."

She lowered herself down next to him, the fabric of her tunic brushing against his own. It was the closest she had ever elected to be to him without then proceeding to strangle him. Smiling despite himself at the thought, he passed the flask to her invitingly, and she sighed, taking it from his gloved hand and bringing it to her lips. After several greedy gulps, she lowered the flask and tapped him with it, signalling him to take it back.

"Do you want to know his last words...?"

Varric stifled a hiccup and took another sip, her cautious question piercing his heart and wounding his soul. _Last words..._ It sounded too unreal to accept, even at this stage. To know that Blondie was well and truly gone... He counted silently the number of letters he was going to have to write when he got back, and after recalling all the smiling faces of those he would need to inform, he nodded gravely, steeling himself for the inevitable.

Swallowing hard, Cassandra placed her hands on her knees and breathed deeply. "You won't believe his choice," she said, clearly unable to believe it herself. "I thought my own heart would stop when I realised what he was saying..." She turned her face to him, leaning her head against the stone wall. "He recited The Canticle of Trials One, verses thirteen through sixteen."

As he stared out at the Abyssal Rift, Varric's jaw dropped slightly open, feeling as though the ground beneath him had opened and swallowed him whole. The hymn Cassandra had prayed in the depths of Suledin Keep, the one she'd recited as she believed Varric lay dying, the one he'd joined her in speaking, had been the one Anders had chosen as his last words in this world before entering the next... But they hadn't gotten as far as that in their own recitation.

"I cannot see the path," he quoted verse thirteen, wiping a hand over his face as he recalled the hymn to mind. "Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward, In darkness enveloped..."

Her sad smile twitching in the corner of her lips, Cassandra's eyes welled with tears for his sadness. "Though all before me is shadow, Yet shall the Maker be my guide," she continued, her voice a mere whisper. "I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light... And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."

Varric's throat tore uncontrollably as he struggled through his lines. "I am not alone... Even As I stumble on the path With my eyes closed, ...yet I see The Light is here..." He grimaced, sniffing hard and covering his eyes with a hand. Varric fought desperately to conceal his tears from her, not wanting anyone to see him like this, least of all the Seeker.

She didn't seem to mind, however, and calmly reached her hand over to grasp his own, their fingers lacing together through their gloves as he dropped his flask in the sand. She squeezed his hand firmly, offering him strength and comfort in his fresh grief.

"Draw your last breath, my friends," she sighed, resting her temple against his and closing her soft brown eyes as the world around them ceased to exist for a time. "Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky... Rest at the Maker's right hand..."

Varric's heart broke within him as he spoke what would have been the final words his old friend had uttered before stepping into the open maw of the Rift:

"...And be forgiven..."


	12. Years to Build, but Only Seconds to Break

Two long weeks of arduous travel and slow recovery paid off when Varric felt the pieces of his old self gradually return. At least on a physical and emotional level, he could honestly claim that he was shouldering through the absolute worst of it. Yes, there had been nights on the road through Orlais when dark memories had threatened to release those sad bastard emotions yet again, but his friends were there to lighten his burden or offer a suitable distraction. Even the Seeker had been more lenient toward him than ever before, and he never could have foreseen their relationship improving as much as it had. To say things were going swimmingly between them would have been like saying Fereldans _kind of_ liked dogs. Truly, his ordeal had brought them closer as friends than he had thought possible.

But there had been no sweeter a vision on his journey than Skyhold's outer walls coming into sight as he crested those familiar cumbersome boulders, the mysterious fortress tucked into the mountainside like a promise of deliverance from the freezing snow pack blanketing as far as the eye could see.

Even still, the entire tragedy surrounding Anders and the reopening of barely-healed wounds regarding Hawke was wholly draining on Varric, and he was eager to get everything to do with it off his desk as soon as possible. That being the case, the first order of business had been the drafting of letters. Sunshine's had been the worst by far, what with having to explain that her brother had survived the encounter in the Fade after all, but was beyond hope of recovery. _How do you even start to put that kind of hell down on paper?_ His bin had overflowed more than once with crumpled drafts too ridiculous to salvage, but despite the pain it brought him to recall it all, he'd done what he had to do, taking periodic breaks in the garden for fresh air between paragraphs. Were it that he could deliver the letter personally, or better yet tell the poor woman to her face, he would have done so in a heartbeat, but that just wasn't in the cards.

Broody's letter was more to the point, though he didn't doubt the elf would have wanted to rip out Blondie's heart himself and spit in his face for good measure, with an added utterance or two about being right all along, or the like. Still, he would mourn Hawke in his own way, and ultimately that was the focus of the letter. Hopefully the man would understand and not see fit to come after Varric in a vicious repeat of the last few weeks. He really didn't want to think about that possibility; his body couldn't take the kind of beating Broody could inflict with just his bare hands. Rivaini would certainly be upset, of course, as would Red, but decidedly more so. Daisy might try to establish contact herself through the Veil, but Varric silently prayed that she kept any details she uncovered to herself. And Choir Boy? Well... He'd be overjoyed, most likely - might even be inclined to call off his little ill-advised crusade, not that the Inquisitor hadn't done her damnedest to quell that shit already. His friends were probably starting to see his letters of correspondence as the bearers of ill news, and he wouldn't blame them, for that's all he ever seemed to deliver these days.

His second day back was dedicated to getting down to business - his _actual_ business: tackling the growing pile of messages from his publisher, reviewing sales statistics, writing another letter to his concerned editor, balancing his personal books, decoding reports from his espionage network, and arranging their next dead drops along with payments for their last jobs. The fire at his back was kept roaring by servants, for which he was grateful, since he was far too entrenched in his work to take notice of the dying light. As he finished each painstaking task, he would set it to his left on the table and reach to his right, letter opener in hand and at the ready each time.

This next letter proved to be interesting in its cryptic nature, though it was left unsigned. The coded words "red" and "lyrium" jumped out at him, capturing his full attention, and he straightened, pulling his chair in closer and pushing the reading spectacles on his nose up a bit as he raised the parchment to his nose.

"Varric."

He looked up, suddenly realising that the voice had called him more than twice already, and was surprised to find the Seeker standing across the table from him, his latest chapter clearly in hand, her middle finger acting as a placeholder three quarters of the way through.

"I hate to beg," he smirked, his tired eyes slightly wary as he looked over his progress, "but _please_ don't flip my table again. This is all _perfectly_ organised, and I'd probably lose my ever-loving mind if you screwed it up now."

His lighthearted jest seemed to ease her stance a fraction, but there was something about her demeanour that hinted of something more. That inkling was confirmed when she looked around and stepped to her right, gathering a far-flung chair and propping it across from him to lower herself into it. Leaning forward, she held the bound pages in her hands and looked down awkwardly, a warm blush staining her cheeks red. "Varric, you're a dwarf..." she started, losing momentum as her mouth opened and closed like a fish choking on air.

"All right, I confess: you caught me," he grinned dazzlingly, his elbow on the table as he waved a hand. "Great deduction skills, there; you truly _are_ a Seeker of Truth!"

Cassandra scooted her chair back, the screech of wood on stone piercing the still air in the hall. _"Ugh,"_ she grumbled, looking away in exasperation. "Never mind, then. It would have been inappropriate to ask, anyway."

Varric's brows shot up in astonishment. "O- _kay_ , you've piqued my curiosity... If you want to know about dwarves, Seeker, then you've come to the right merchant prince - so long as I can reference this conversation in future publications," he added as a caveat.

She stirred with uncertainty as her blush deepened. "Well..." Stealing a glance around them to make sure they weren't overheard, she again pulled her chair in and let out a great, relenting sigh as she opened the chapter to the corresponding page. "I am at the part where the informant, Victor, is bragging openly about his..."

He didn't want to assist her with wordsmithing this time. It was so much more enjoyable to watch her squirm. "His...?" He encouraged her, doing his best not to laugh in her face.

Her angled brows came together, slightly annoyed that he was making her actually say it out loud. "...Prowess," she finally spat out.

"Delicately put, I'll give you that," he admitted with a nod, leaning away and draping his arm over the back of the chair as he removed his spectacles. "Though that's the only time I'll ever use that term to describe you."

He managed to turn the corner of her lip, and for once, not out of disgust. "I was only curious if dwarves are exceptionally... blessed in… _that_ area. The way they tend to brag so brazenly makes it appear as if they believe they are the Maker's gift to women."

Blanching in an instant, Varric froze in his seat. "Oh. Never mind, I _won't_ be printing this... You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

"...You don't want me to answer that," Cassandra muttered sarcastically, clearly hearing an innuendo where none was intended. She truly was beginning to relax around him if she could make that kind of off-colour remark.

Stifling a laugh with a derisive snort, he sighed and scratched at his ear, fiddling with his gold earring before lowering his hands and turning back to face her. "Hate to break it to you, Seeker, but we're fairly proportional creatures." He leaned with both elbows on the table, the stacks of letters effectively creating walls on either side of them, keeping their conversation mercifully private. "Why do you think so many of us choose to wield giant two-handed axes or battle hammers - or even extravagant, one-of-a-kind, deadly crossbows? It's... a bit of theatre, a bit of compensation on our parts. Nothing new to men in general, come to think of it."

Frowning, Cassandra seemed to slump with... disappointment? Was that the emotion he saw flit across her eyes? "I see," she nodded her acceptance of this explanation. "For what it's worth, I am sorry."

"Not as sorry as I am, trust me - But hey," he shrugged, giving her a devilish smirk and leaning toward her with a wink, "I could be wrong! It's not like I haven't been before, about any number of things... Maybe you could check for me; tell me how I measure up."

Varric was thoroughly surprised when she didn't immediately stand up and storm out, as she would have done not even a month ago, instead replying with smiling eyes, "It seems you would only disappoint me, dwarf."

He huffed out a small, self-deprecating laugh. "Like you'd be the first woman I ever disappointed! Ah well, suit yourself. But someday curiosity's gonna get the better of you, and when that day comes," he pointed a thumb at his chest hair, "I'll be right here to facilitate your tireless quest for answers."

 _"Ugh,"_ she finally scoffed, "I'd sooner shoot myself in the face with Bianca."

"Hey, if you lack the expertise, I don't want you even _touching_ Bianca. Same goes for junior," he quipped, arching a ginger brow teasingly.

Cocking her head to the side, the Seeker's brow furrowed inquisitively. "Who said I lack the expertise? Now _that_ is bullshit," she challenged him gently, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back. His eyes travelled over her wry stance appreciatively, pleasantly surprised at this new playful banter they were exploring together.

An annoyed growl came out of nowhere, breaking Varric's stare and causing them both to jump as though caught in mid-act. The letter stacks had done a decent job of blocking the qunari's entrance, but to be fair the Seeker's forwardness had also been quite the distraction. " _Tiny_ ," Varric's voice cracked involuntarily, sitting up straight and doing his best to forget their odd exchange. "What, uh... What can I do for you?"

Stalking over, The Iron Bull looked as though he was holding back a mountain of bottled frustration, and he placed a fist on the edge of the table as he pursed his lips in disapproval. "Would you two get it over with and bone already?"

Cassandra jerked and reflexively put a hand down to the pommel of her sword. _"What_ did you just say?" She rasped in outrage, struggling to keep her voice down so the nearby crowd of diplomats and nobles didn't take an interest in the proceedings.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Don't pull that crap with me; I was _Ben-Hassrath_ , remember?" Bull sighed as he leaned down toward her to preserve her privacy. "It's obvious you have pent-up tension that needs a release. I'd get you to _hit_ something, but you hit each other _all the time,_ and _that_ doesn't work! So _come on_ ," he stressed, growing emphatic with the sordid suggestion. "It's not like it has to be sacred or anything, just get a room and - " He clicked his tongue twice against the roof of his mouth, winking with his one good eye and shrugging as he straightened. "'Job done, thank you, see you next week, buddy.' Easy as that!"

Furiously blushing now, the Seeker stood as she shot a cautious glance toward Varric. Letting out a growl of pure disgust, she shook her head in denial at him, curiously enough, rather than Bull. " _That_ is - _how_ could you think… What _nonsense."_ Pursing her lips in anger, she glared indignantly and snatched the chapter up from the table, knocking two or three letters to the rug as she brought it up to her chest like a shield. "If anyone requires my presence, I'll be in the armoury – doing _my_ job," she stated levelly. Not saying goodbye to either of them, she walked purposefully back toward the staircase, presumably to beat the hell out of a practice dummy for a while.

Sighing, Iron Bull shook his horns and lowered himself into the newly-available chair. "Like I said, throwing stones at yelping hounds," he grumbled under his breath. "Hey Varric, you need a break?"

He'd been stunned into silence for the duration of Tiny's tirade, moved to speechlessness until this point. "Why, w-what time is it?" He asked, grateful for a change of subject.

 _"Break_ time," Bull grinned, a hand on his knee as he scooted the chair back comfortably.

"Ah." Thinking it over, Varric glanced at the light bleeding in through the balcony windows, perceiving for the first time the fading light of day. "No, better not. There's a shit-ton to chug through here, if you haven't noticed. I gotta get these letters off my desk by tomorrow, or else I'll be paying for it later. I think I'm finally cracking the case on that red lyrium source, by the way… This might be a decent lead, but there's a code involved. I'll need to dig through some records first to confirm."

As he buried his face in the letter again and vaguely recognised the handwriting, a large grey hand came forth and pulled the parchment from his hands. " _Varric_. Put it _down_. You're pushing yourself too hard, too soon. Remember what we talked about before Emprise du Lion and all the crap that went down there? Cards and drinks, just us guys - no Solas, like we agreed. You in?"

"Damn, that does sound like a good time... " Varric's eyes glazed over for a moment at the thought of a proper night out with the boys, but in the end, he shook the daydream aside. "Sorry, though, I'm gonna have to say no. Rain check?"

Sighing, Iron Bull pursed his lips and stood up, readying himself to leave as he laid the letter face-down on the table. "Right. Okay then."

Without a sound, the qunari effortlessly reached across the table and yanked a squirming Varric out of his chair, throwing the man over his broad shoulder and turning for the large double doors.

"What the - _Put me down!_ I'm not lying about being busy as all hell!"

"Didn't think you were," he replied, the green, rounded eyes of a scandalised Josephine on them as he lumbered through the doors and reached the stone landing, "but I asked if you needed a break, and you made it pretty damn clear that you do. Don't worry, it'll still be there in the morning."

Growling, the rogue nearly escaped his grasp before he was repositioned more comfortably on Bull's shoulders. _"Damn it_ , Tiny, do you have _any_ idea how demeaning this is to dwarves?!"

"Yep," he replied, a smile on his voice as he descended the stairs and made his way to the tavern, all activity slowing as rubberneckers stuck their noses where it didn't belong. "Rocky doesn't like when I pick him up, either. Come on, you fun-sized boys can plot your revenge against me later."

He gave up struggling when Bull opened the tavern door, shifting just enough to give Varric the perfect view of Scout Harding hiding her freckled face behind a gloved hand, her body shaking with uncontrollable laughter at his plight.

"I hate you so much right now, you gigantic lumbering bastard," he mumbled as they passed through the door, catching the back of his head on the door frame.

**~oOo~**

It was difficult to gauge the hour at this point, but the window panes were dark as jet anyhow, and something like twelve or fourteen pitchers had been filled and emptied since they'd started their slipshod game of Wicked Grace. Two sure-fire indications of the late hour for Varric were the slow emptying of patrons from the tables in Herald's Rest, and the deepening of the scowl around Cabot's surly mouth. Judging by the way the bearded dwarf angrily dried mug after sudsy mug from the sink drainer, they were pushing the limits of his already-lacking hospitality. One more round and they'd be kicked out for sure.

"So, I shit you not, he turns to the poor bastard and says, 'If they're _not_ dead, watch out for a bunch of boneless women flopping through the streets.'"

As Bull, Krem, and Dorian chuckled and drank fully from their mugs, Blackwall covered a hand over his eyes and lowered his cards to the table's sticky surface, shaking his head in disbelief. "Maker's Balls, how did that man avoid getting punched in the jaw every time he opened his bloody mouth?"

"You'd be surprised, Hero – or maybe you wouldn't," Varric chortled as he scooped foam from the top of his mug with a finger and wiped it carelessly on a napkin. "He got decked more times than I could make note of."

"I got one, boys," Bull called their attention as he scanned his cards and abandoned them on the table in favour of his drink. The game of Wicked Grace had basically been all but forgotten at this point – not that anyone was sober enough to mind. "So I'm conducting business with Krem in the corner, over there, going over the pay for my guys and splitting it down the middle, you know, because I'm a fair boss. Right, Krem-puff?"

"The fairest one of all, Chief," he nodded once, setting his elbows on the table to keep his body upright.

"Then in walks yours truly, and he's _smashed._ I've never seen a guy that plastered and still on his feet. We glance over just out of curiosity, like maybe we should get him to his room or something to sleep it off."

Grinning, Varric shrugged and interjected, "We probably went a little overboard with the whisky on more than one occasion while he was here."

"And the wine," Dorian muttered into his drink.

Cole perked up from his makeshift seat atop the mantel. "And the water."

Shaking his head, Blackwall gave the spirit a passing glance. "No, that was gin, Cole."

 _"Anyway,"_ Bull continued, slightly miffed at being interrupted, "we go back to the payroll since he seems to be holding it together, and before I know it, he pulls up a chair and props his feet all up on our table."

"Oh boy, I already know where this is going," Varric laughed, dropping his own cards back on the scattered draw pile.

Krem smirked, picking up the story from there. "I tell him to get his muddy old boots off our hard-earned coin, and he crosses his arms over his chest. Starts grinning like we just told him we're cutting him in."

"I'm _trying_ to be civil with the guy. He's been through a lot of crap with the Wardens and I'm too busy to start anything," Bull shrugged nonchalantly, "but he's plainly got other ideas."

Varric nudged Blackwall with an elbow, urging him to pay attention to the coming climax. Leaning up with a frown, the bearded warrior traded a curious look with Dorian, who shrugged and asked for everyone present, "So, Bull? Tell us, how did the Fereldan respond?"

Iron Bull took a long swig of his ale before leaning back and stating evenly, "He throws me this charming smile and straight up says, _'Fight_ me.'"

Blackwall shook his head, thoroughly confused as dubious laughter threatened to bubble up. "Wait… What?"

"As Andraste as my witness, that's exactly what he said," Krem confirmed, stretching his arms high over his head to fight the cramp forming in his back.

The qunari was eager to keep the story going, and waved Krem back into silence next to him. "So I go, 'What was that?' And he giggles, sets his boots on the floor, leans in real close to me, and says it _again_ – but this time louder, so now everyone around us is starting to nose in on it."

Clearly unable to take any of this seriously, Blackwall's shoulders vibrated as he fought a sudden wave of hysteria. Patting his back encouragingly, Varric stood and made his way to the bar, retrieving the last pitchers of ale Cabot had poured before ultimately bailing on them for the night. "Every time Hawke encountered a qunari after the whole thing with the Arishok, he couldn't help himself, the little shit."

Iron Bull reached out a hand as Varric stumbled slightly, taking a pitcher seemingly all for himself. "I keep brushing him off, but he's throwing his arms out at this point, shouting, 'Come on, I can take anyone who mistakes a circus tent for battle armour! _Fight_ me!' I try everything in the book, but he doesn't stop provoking me to take a swing. Even insulted my mother, and that might've hurt if I knew who the hell she was."

Krem managed to wrestle the pitcher away from Bull and poured himself another mugful. "So the Chief finally stands up and he's ready to kick some Champion ass when – "

"Hold up, Krem, I'm getting to that! Let me tell it! _So_ , I figure he's got a big head just because he killed the Arishok back in Kirkwall, and I can tell the man doesn't have a beef with me because he's practically shaking with glee when I stand up."

Again, Blackwall was too breathless to ask, so Dorian brushed his moustache with a finger to steady the twitching of his lip and pressed, "Did you take the poor fellow outside?"

"Nope," Bull's eye glinted with anticipation, "I didn't get that far."

Cole's droopy hat rose unexpectedly as he sat up straight, his legs swinging playfully near the flames. "Hawke tried to hit The Iron Bull, but he missed. He spun around and fell over, then passed out snoring on the floorboards by the stairs."

The room exploded in uproarious laughter at that, partially from Cole's statement, but mostly due to the flabbergasted look on Bull's face. "Cole, _come on,_ man - that was the best part! How'd you know, anyway?" He raised a finger in warning at the young spirit as the others tried their damnedest to simmer down. "You better not be picking through my brain again! You know that creeps me the hell out!"

His pale brows raised on his drawn face, though it was difficult to tell beneath the broad rim of his leather hat. "I-I was up there," he pointed needlessly to the third floor above them. "I saw it happen!"

Varric turned in his chair, waving a dismissive hand as he rubbed his side with the other. "It's okay, Tiny. What's the Kid here for if not to spoil the punchlines?" He raised a glass toward the boy in drunken salute, but Cole hunched his shoulders, regardless.

"No-one was punched, Varric," he muttered in misunderstanding, lowering his head again. "I'm sorry, Bull."

"Bah, no worries, Cole," the warrior drank from his mug again, "I'm over it."

Clearing his throat, Dorian arched a single dark eyebrow and smiled knowingly at the stout man burying his face in his mug. "Speaking of stories with lack-luster endings, Varric, how goes your book?"

The dwarf choked on his ale and nearly spat a mouthful across the table at that. Wiping at his chin with a sleeve, Varric laughed, "Wow, Dorian, I'm not even mad. I'm impressed! Which one are you referring to, did you say?"

"Oh pish, you know the one I'm on about! A certain _someone_ can't get enough of it from what I've seen. Though I don't see the appeal in that fluffy drivel, myself."

"You sure it's the story she can't get enough of? Or is it something else?" Iron Bull grinned, throwing a glance over his shoulder to check that they were truly alone in the empty tavern.

Blackwall beamed, crossing his arms over his chest. "So! You _are_ eyeing the Lady Seeker, Varric! Did you take any of the advice I gave you?"

Varric shifted uncomfortably, doing his best to ignore the topic of Cassandra entirely. The last thing he wanted was for the guys to pick him apart about this. As if tuning his ears to hear Varric's anxieties better, Cole sat upright and turned his head in their direction again, his mouth shut for once. Thank the Maker for small mercies, at least. "Can we _not_ talk about this right now – or _ever?_ Yeah. Thanks."

A look passed between Blackwall and Iron Bull then, and Varric watched in surprise as the burly warrior pulled out a sovereign and threw it across the table toward the beaming qunari, who scooped it up and winked with his one good eye.

"Whoa, whoa, _hang_ on," Varric stood up unsteadily, pointing a less-than-sober finger at Blackwall. "What's up with the coin?"

Dorian rolled his eyes in mock-exasperation. "Blackwall lost the bet, of course. And before you humiliate yourself further, it's painfully obvious as to what's going on between you and Cassandra. Do you take us for fools? You're writing _smutty fiction_ for the woman – _exclusively_ for her!"

"That was all _Solas'_ idea," he protested as a dismissive, almost nervous laugh overtook his voice. "Tiny, give Hero his damn money back. _Nothing's_ going on. You're all just casting out bait, but I'm not biting tonight."

"Solas?" Krem's brow wrinkled dubiously. "I have a hard time picturing that sad bastard suggesting you write anything _remotely_ sexy."

"Don't believe me, huh? Solas can back me up on this! Hey Solas, tell them - _shit,_ you didn't invite him! The _one_ guy who could vouch for me, and he's not even here! Eh, that's typical."

In a flash, Dorian's pursed lips relaxed, an idea striking him as a devious smirk spread over his mouth. "There is _one_ way to settle this… Cole?"

He visibly paled as he froze on his chair, the wary boy responding from behind him with a simple, "What?"

"Wait - " Varric blurted out before he could stop himself, holding up a shaking hand to halt the mage in his tracks. "Come on, don't bring the Kid into this. That's… No, that's bad form, guys." He prayed Cole would honour the promise of silence he'd made in the ancient catacombs of Suledin Keep, only weeks ago. _Please, Kid, don't tell the guys - I'd never live it down._

Leaning forward, Iron Bull lowered his voice and pressed, "If you have nothing to hide, then you have nothing to fear. Right?"

"Figures the qunari would rely on that old line," Blackwall added as an aside, knocking back the last of his ale. "I'd wager it's written directly into the Qun somewhere."

"You want to fork out _more_ sovereigns, Blackwall?" Bull chided, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together in anticipation of further payments. "I won't stop you if you want to line my pockets with more gold."

"So, Cole –" Dorian glanced up from his mug, only to blink hard through his drunken haze at the now-empty mantel. "Oh, he's up and disappeared! Well now, how convenient for you, Varric. That's not telling at all!"

He shook his head in stark relief, and decided to deflect some of the tension. "No more telling than the way you've been undressing Tiny with your eyes all night. Were you sober when you crawled into his bed the first time?"

As Iron Bull grinned and let out a gruff laugh, the necromancer next to him recoiled in his large shadow, protesting sheepishly, "Don't get him started. He'll get sadomasochistic inklings, and I'll have to retrain myself to walk yet again."

Krem scrunched his eyes tightly, his palms pressed against his temples. "Andraste's Eyes, there aren't enough casks in the _world_ to scrub that image from my mind!" They laughed until their sides hurt at that, pounding their fists against the table in approval and downing the last of the crisp brew between gasps for breath.

Their merriment was silenced in an instant as an arrow plummeted down from above, the razor-sharp arrowhead lodging in the middle of the table. Varric dove beneath for protection, reaching for Bianca reflexively, but stopping himself as he realised he'd come unarmed. It was then that he caught sight of the raging elf on the floor above them, bags of fatigue under her eyes.

"It's one thing that only poxy people with pricks were invited to your lousy party, but you gotta be noisy piss-pants, too?!"

"Bloody _hell_ , Sera," Blackwall roared while Bull yanked the arrow from the splintering wood, the shock sobering them considerably, "I damn-near soiled myself!"

"So take yer mucky trousers back to the barn like, and let the rest of us get some ruddy shut-eye," she thundered, her bow still trained threateningly.

Taking the hint, Varric emerged from under the table, his hands raised in surrender. "All right, you've made your point; we're moving on. Sweet dreams, Buttercup."

She scoffed out an exhausted, guttural groan, lowering her arms and plodding back to her room, slamming the door for emphasis behind her.

"Sera's got _some_ set of balls," Krem commented as he rose, looking up admiringly in the direction the grumpy elf was last seen.

"She's got about as much as you do, Krem de la Krem," Bull replied, reaching the door and ushering them outside. "Come on, let's go hit something. I gotta work that arrow out of my system."

**~oOo~**

The Seeker's Tome, passed down since the time of the first Inquisition from Lord Seeker to Lord Seeker, lay on the table behind her as Cassandra leaned against the stone and stared out the window of the armoury. It was her responsibility now, the information therein hers to act upon however she saw fit. Its cover remained closed, containing a plethora of dark secrets of which she did not know how to process at first. Fortunately, her talk with Inquisitor Lavellan had done her a world of good, putting those worried, disturbed thoughts to bed. She had decided that, in due time, she would rebuild her Order from the ground up, doing only the will of the Maker and refusing to wield the Seekers' power purely for their own gain ever again.

The tome had been a fascinating read, if not also shaking the foundations of not only her faith, but her sense of honour as well. In short, she had been lied to by those she had followed and respected, believing all along that she had been doing the Maker's will. But it turned out that this belief she'd held was not so, and they as an organisation may very well have done a great disservice to Thedas as a whole.

She recalled to mind Varric's meandering tale of Anders and his open opposition to the Rite of Tranquillity, and the circumstances surrounding their first introductions. Within day one of meeting the Dust Town healer, they were faced with the man's former lover, another mage named Karl who was made tranquil by Knight-Commander Meredith before Anders could help him escape the Circle. She could only imagine the devastation in those woeful eyes at realising the unthinkable had occurred, but the way Varric had told the tale had burned a picture into her mind that she couldn't erase… Especially now.

Part of her wished that she had discovered the truth about the rite's reversal in time to share the news with Anders… But it was a very small part. It was dangerous knowledge, and there was no telling what the extent of his likely shocked and outraged reaction would have been at discovering that any race, any class, any person vulnerable to those in power, could be and _have been_ in the past robbed of their humanity. Justice might have gone berserk then and there, forcing her hand against the situation that, to a degree, he deserved to be self-righteous about. Besides, for what that mage had caused in Kirkwall, easing his passing was not first and foremost on her mind. He did nothing to ease the passing of those in the Chantry that horrible day; why should she have extended him the courtesy he'd so brutally denied others?

She sighed aloud at that, lowering her eyes to the black mould growing along the edges of the windowpane and tracing her bare finger through the condensation on the glass. At least the nightmares had ended for her. Cassandra could only assume he had been successful in locating Hawke. It would be simple enough to inquire with Solas about the outcome, but she would rather believe in the happy ending she'd created in her heart than face a reality where there was none. Admittedly, she disliked that about herself regarding this situation; were it anything else, she would face the hard truth and deal with it honestly. Lately, though, she found herself willing to believe in a comforting dream instead of facing the facts. It _could_ be fact. Anders could have found Hawke, fought off the demons, and held his lover – his husband, she corrected herself – in his arms once again. And the romantic in her chose to believe such devotion and beauty could exist outside the pages of a novel…

Leaning her head against the stone, Cassandra wiped at the remaining water on the glass, clearing her view of the courtyard. She was startled to catch sight of a group of her companions standing outside the tavern, loitering halfway between the sparring area and practice dummies. Startled, yes, but hardly surprised once she recognised those congregating outside her window. Bull himself was obvious enough even in silhouette, and Dorian seemed to have a slightly visible glow about him at times – though that could very well have been the sheen of moonlight off his oiled hair. Blackwall and Cremisius were slightly more difficult to make out in the dark, but her eyes eventually adjusted enough to identify them readily.

And then, of course, there _he_ stood, unmistakable as he was at his height _._ In confusion, Cassandra laid a hand over her stomach to soothe the giddy flutters that had sprung out of nowhere within her. Damn her body for betraying her like that. So much had transpired in Orlais that had changed the dynamic of their relationship, and she was quick to admit to herself that the shift had caught her off-guard, but didn't necessarily make her uncomfortable. She still didn't like him; that feeling had not altered much… Or had it?

She softly uttered a disgusted groan and turned her attention away, walking to the table and leaning over it on fists as she stared down at the Seeker's Tome. Truly, much more than she was admitting had changed about many things, and she'd been rattled to the core by both the secrets of her Order and the revelations about Hawke's fate. Varric's infrequent chapters of _Swords and Shields_ had served as a merciful distraction from the horrors and betrayals she had faced, but even the little updates on her favourite characters weren't enough to drown out that one question residing at the back of her mind: what was his motivation?

Why would he, of all people, continue to take time out of his busy life purely for her recreational enjoyment? Could he possibly have feelings for – No… That would defy everything she understood about the dwarf. If anything, this was a form of subtle torture; no doubt he was planning to murder her beloved characters in the end just to watch her crumble. It was easier to admit than the alternative. Although she settled her mind on this theory given all previous incidents with him, that did not go a long way to explain why her heart had softened toward him. It was not _all_ out of sympathy for his grief, if she was honest with herself. And despite her revulsion to this fact, she had to admit that the touch of his hand around her as she slept at camp those nights afterward had mended something inside her that she had not known was damaged in any way. Whether it was the pain of losing Regalyan at the Temple, or the part of her that desired to be appreciated again as a woman, she couldn't say. Perhaps it was both, or even none of them. It would certainly be easier to admit these strange feelings to herself if she knew where _his_ lay in all this…

Their laughter could be heard from where she stood, albeit muffled and unintelligible. Curious, she made her way back to the window and took precautions not to cast her shadow on the glass, leaning instead against the stone wall. She listened for a time to the rhythm of their speech, imagining their sordidness and boyish nonsense. The thought brought a rare smile to her lips, knowing that she had not only brought together this Inquisition, but these friends, as well. Secretly, she was glad that others were still able to find joy in these dark times. And, suddenly wanting to be part of that unity, she reached a hand over and silently nudged the window slightly open, the cold air hitting her as hard as the crisp quality of their words:

"…who said anything about sleeping with her? What about love? Methinks thou dost protest too much!"

"Sparkler, I'd rather save myself for Bianca."

"I believe that, sure - but I thought you and Bianca were already, er… You know."

"Ooh, good point, Blackwall!"

"A nug then! You think that after all the shit she put me through in the Free Marches that I would see her as anything other than a jackbooted thug with a penchant for violence?"

Her stomach lurched again, but in stark contrast to her earlier reaction. Placing a few thoughtful fingers over her lips, her brow furrowed as she listened on, the laughter from below now obviously at her expense.

"…tired of having to tell you guys that there's nothing going on between us. Just because you don't see her throwing chairs at my head anymore doesn't mean we're sneaking around secluded corners to steal passionate kisses! Ugh, just the _thought_ of that makes all that ale want to come back up!"

"Ain't it great when you get to taste it twice?"

"Ew, Chief, what the hell!"

The swift squeaking of a hinge across the way interrupted their conversation. "S'not any better standin' outside my bleedin' bedroom, shit-knobs! Switch it off, an' go bother someone else for once!" The window slammed shut again, and Cassandra was surprised not to hear the glass itself shatter from the force of it.

"Rather uncalled for."

"I bet she's unhappy we didn't invite her along tonight. Should've seen that coming, to be honest."

"Note to self: don't make an enemy of Buttercup. From now on, she's one of the guys. She can come to all our future games."

"What about Cass?"

"No. She's _not_ one of the guys."

"Ah, so she's a proper _woman_ to you, then?"

"She's a proper pain in my ass! And _definitely_ not my type. I _do_ have standards, you know."

"So… You're serious, then? No feelings for her at all?"

" _None._ And that's my final answer. Now I have to get some beauty sleep before dawn, so if you don't mind?"

"…Bull."

"Yeah, what?"

"Give me back my sovereign."

She heard the shuffle of their boots as they faded off into the distance, her heart hardened to stone in her chest. Shutting the window, she made her way to the table and sat down, resting her head on the tips of her fingers and leaning her elbows on the table's surface, determined to mull over those words carefully. She wasn't stupid; the tone in Varric's voice matched any lie he'd ever spun, though he'd done a decent job of trying to sound convincing and emphatic. He was most certainly grandstanding for effect, either to persuade his friends or himself, which left her with an awful conclusion: Varric held at least some level of romantic affection for her…

But he was unwilling to admit the truth to others, and would even go so far as to belittle her behind her back in order to deny it.

"Conniving little shit," she muttered under her breath, rubbing her eyes hard as she thought. These emotions she had indulged during a momentary lapse of judgement were ill-placed. Even had she possibly wanted something more, she would never do so with a man who could not confess what was truly on his heart. Maker, she had been a fool for expecting Varric to be anything other than a lying opportunist.

So that was it, then. Rising, she grabbed her chapter of _Swords and Shields,_ descending the wooden steps to the hard floor of the armoury, and crossed the large room to the red coals of the forge. Her purpose was singular. As she stopped before the smouldering heat of the flames, she gave the chapter one last glaring look…

…And tossed it into the fire.

Cassandra watched the parchments catch and burn, embers floating up through the chimney and into the night sky, and she encased her heart in steel as she turned her back on tales of sweet romance once and for all.

"Gotcha," was all she said.


	13. Plea Bargaining

For the fifth time in twenty minutes, he bent down and lifted the tablecloth covering the sideboard, this time narrowly avoiding knocking over the large flower vase propped in its centre. As before, she wasn't hiding there, but it was worth a shot at least. The Illustrious Duchess of Who-Even-Cares-Anymore shot him a critical, disapproving glare, and he couldn't resist the urge to bow mockingly in her direction, which garnered such a flabbergasted look from her that he actually laughed out loud. Clearing his throat and hiding his blush, he briskly stepped to his left and walked toward the Inquisitor's throne, peeking his head around the enormous thing to peer behind the seat. Again she wasn't there, and a cursory glance upward revealed that she hadn't clawed her way up the heavy velvet curtains to play with the tieback tassels, either.

Sighing in resignation, Varric watched out of the corner of his vision as the door leading to Inquisitor Lavellan's quarters opened slightly, and was hardly surprised when the hedge mage quietly emerged, carefully closing the door behind him. Scratching his nose casually, the elf slipped away and took a step toward the entryway.

"Chuckles," Varric called, startling Solas as he approached from behind and lightly grabbed his upper arm.

Jerking, the man spun on his bare heel with stunningly swift reflexes. "Oh! Master Tethras, you surprised me," Solas breathed as his heart rate began to return to normal. "Should you not be assembling with our friends near the stables? We will be leaving shortly."

"Yeah, I know – Listen," he waved a hand in dismissal, changing the subject of departure entirely, "have you seen Mouse today?"

"Mouse?" His thin brows drew together in thought momentarily, but it suddenly dawned on him to whom Varric was referring. "Ah, you mean _Banal'ras_."

He obviously didn't have time for this, but indulging Solas in his tireless musings was usually the quickest way to gain his favour and receive the best information. "Banal what-now?"

The freckled man effected a somewhat shy smile, explaining readily, "It is an affectionate nickname the Inquisitor and I have given your elusive young friend. _Banal'ras_ is Elven for 'shadow'."

Charmed, Varric let out a chuckle in the form of a sigh. "I thought I was the only one around here assigning nicknames. Eh, can't say that's not entirely unearned, though," he added as he glanced into the darker corners to no avail. He threw out his arms in exasperation, his patience with the situation waning. "I can't find her _anywhere,_ and I still gotta grab my pack."

Shifting his weight onto a hip, Solas' eyes narrowed in silent amusement. "Have you checked the rookery?" As Varric's eyes visibly widened, he let out a laugh, snorting softly to himself. "No, it's unlikely she is there, presently. You might have heard otherwise if that was the case."

"Oh, don't even kid around about crap like that. I can't deal with that level of stress right now."

Unconcerned for Varric's minor plight, the elf's body relaxed considerably as he offered a small shrug. _"Banal'ras_ will turn up soon. I would not dwell on the issue much longer, as she has proven handily that she can fend for herself. Shall we meet you outside?"

Accepting this, Varric trudged past a candelabra and placed his hand on the door to his right. "Well, thanks anyway, Chuckles. I'll meet you guys in a minute – I have to have a word with someone first about that damned cat."

Inclining his head and smiling humorously, Solas prepared to cut through the masked gathering. "I will ready your mount for you."

Not all of the doors had been brought to the current standard, and Varric still couldn't fathom why this door in particular hadn't been one of the first on that list for the carpenters and joiners to repair. The constant winter chill that clung to every area of the fortress ensured that anyone who intended to pass through the wooden doors therein had to want it badly enough. He gripped the handle and shoved his weight against the swollen wood, sending out a loud creak through the hall as he stepped inside and closed it loosely. As was usually the case, Ambassador Josephine sat upright, quill in hand, and greeted Varric with an engaging smile.

"Sorry to impose on you, Ruffles," he started in an exhausted tone, "but I wanted to make sure you were still good for watching Mouse while I was out on Inquisition business."

The nature of her smile changing slightly, Josephine's eyes glistened as she replied, "Of course, Varric, I have not changed my mind regarding my responsibilities. You appear disquieted; is there a problem?"

"Yeah, well," Varric admitted, rubbing his brow roughly, "I kind of... lost her, and I don't have the time to keep looking. If you see her, can you – " He stopped himself short as he watched her odd smile transform into a grin, and noticed for the first time that her left hand was kneading something below the desk and out of his line of sight. "You have her already, don't you?"

Realising that she had been unable to contain her secret, she lifted the growing kitten up to her chest, where Mouse batted lightly at her gilded necklace. "I was in the process of transcribing a letter to the King of Ferelden when who should appear outside my window but my sweet little Mouse-y! Of course, I just had to rescue her from falling, though I have absolutely no idea how she managed to climb up there in the first place." Josephine ran her cheek along the kitten's whiskers, clearly pleased with her new assignment. "Does she need anything specific as far as caring?"

Relieved that Mouse had been safe all along, Varric answered with a hair of sarcasm, "Nah, she's been a breeze. If she disappears for a while, don't panic. Mouse always comes back... Usually with a gift."

"A gift?" She pondered curiously.

"Yep," he sighed loudly in dismay, "Nightingale was breathing fire for all of a day, but I think she's forgiven me. Grumbled something about weeding out the weak from her flock."

"Ah, I heard about the incident," Josephine nodded, petting the cat lightly. "It's quite difficult to imagine this adorable creature besting a trained raven in open combat!"

"Like I said, she's self-sufficient and tough as nails," he reminded her with a touch of pride, "but she loves long strokes and curling up on laps, so I figured you'd be the comfiest seat in the house, Ruffles."

"You flatter me, Varric," the ambassador arched a brow. She placed Mouse gently next to her feet and watched as the cat attacked the dancing light on the rug reflected from her golden splendour. "I will take good care of her for you. Perhaps you will come back to one incredibly fat and spoiled kitten!"

Smiling with his eyes, Varric made his way to the door as he spoke. "She's in good hands, then! Oh, and don't show her your secret stash in the desk drawer, there. Wouldn't want to spend my pay replacing your stock of sweets."

She shot him a wide-eyed glance from the corner of her eye. "How… did you find out about those?"

He winked charmingly as he began to pull the door open, heading for the stables. "See you soon, Ruffles."

"Ah…" Josie raised a finger to halt his departure, rising from the chair behind her desk and standing just short of the steps. "A moment, Varric. I wanted to inquire about Lady Cassandra."

His heart rose up to meet his throat, its pace quickening at her name. "The Seeker?" He wondered as nonchalantly as he could manage, clearing his throat as he turned back to face her directly. "…Why? Is uh… something going on?"

"Oh, I'm sure it is nothing of consequence," she reassured him, sensing his unease, but not quite understanding it. "I merely wished to be certain that she was feeling right in herself. I hardly recognised her upon your return from Orlais! Cassandra had a certain glow, and a spring in her step for many days, but it appears to have faded as of late. She's a great deal quieter, more serious and driven than usual. I had not thought that possible, before."

Her observations left Varric dumbstruck. If he was honest, he hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary… But now that Josephine brought it up, he struggled to remember the last time he had talked to the Seeker. It must have been days since she'd spoken to him directly, let alone crossed paths with him. Was that a conscious decision she was making to avoid him? "Hmm," was all he managed to say in response.

Shrugging, the Ambassador let out a light sigh and continued, "I only wondered if you had heard anything that might explain the change in her behaviour – in both instances... She had been speaking to you more – sans her typical glare - so I had hoped she may have said something to you regarding…" Not receiving an answer from the silent dwarf, Josephine relented reluctantly. "Well then. Obviously by the look on your face, you were unaware, but if you could keep an ear to the ground, I would appreciate it greatly."

Coming back from his train of thought, Varric chuckled at her words, opening the door wide. "You want me to use my spying skills to gather gossip for you? _Ruffles_. You're a woman after my own heart!"

She placed her hands behind her back and bowed jokingly as she softly smiled. "Have a safe journey, Varric. I will keep a close eye on Mouse, I assure you."

Varric waved his goodbyes and closed the door with him on the other side, and Josephine stifled a quiet giggle, turning around with a click of her small heels –

Only to discover that her young charge had vanished from the study entirely without a trace.

"Oh, Dear Maker," she muttered to herself. "Not a good start, Josie."

**~oOo~**

_They were cornered like rats._

_Seeker Cristina stared openly, her shock written plainly on her face, unable to speak. The Guardsman, who had done his best against their assailant, lay huddled on the ground, cradling his shoulder as the Knight-Captain threw her arms around his middle and dragged him behind the stunned woman. Her longsword would have dropped noisily to the ground had she not forced herself to grip it with every bit of strength she had left, and she raised it as he stepped forward again._

" _Cris," he said coolly, the moonlight casting shadows over the multitude of scars on his worn face._

_She glared indignantly, angry that he dared call her anything so intimate. "Lord Seeker Lukis," she spat out the name, raising her shield as she shifted to guard the two on the ground._

_Sighing, the Lord Seeker shook his head, his shoulders sinking with weariness. "You were always such a malcontent, Cris. I was so close to getting the Knight-Captain out of our way, but you ignored my explicit orders and inserted yourself into a situation in which you did not belong... And now it has come to this," he gestured toward her weapon, removing a kerchief from his belt and cleaning his blade. "I am so very disappointed in you."_

" _I can assure you," Cristina bit back disdainfully, "the feeling is quite mutual."_

_Lord Seeker Lukis gave her a look that spoke volumes as he tucked the kerchief away. He began to pace the length of the alley, not straying too far from the filthy barrels where his prey now huddled. "The Knight-Captain has come too close for comfort to my various ventures. I did whatever I had to in order to keep my hands clean: I hired the Crows to dispose of her, Carta agents to destroy her, and I even extorted several apostates to carry out my will for me, using the threat of the Rite of Tranquillity to my advantage. All failed me in one way or another, and none lived long enough for a second chance at their task – be it by my hand or hers. Finally, my Noble friend discovered a potential weakness I could exploit: that Guardsman. But killing him would not have destroyed her spirit. No," he dismissed this with the wave of a hand, "I risked inspiring her to work that much harder to fight for her idea of 'justice', but to insinuate that she had breached protocol for an infatuation? It was a stroke of genius! I wouldn't have to destroy her – just her career!"_

_He turned to the Seeker then, his cold eyes practically boring into her own. "But then you simply had to go and ruin all of my hard work! I should have stripped you of your position years ago, but the others might have suspected I was up to something. So now the only option left to me is to slay you in cold blood like a street urchin and sweep it all under the proverbial rug. The Viscount can be persuaded to believe anything I tell him about the circumstances surrounding – "_

_An arrow ripped through the air from above, aimed precisely at the weakest point in his boot's armour, and Lord Seeker Lukis let out a growl of pain as he realised he'd been effectively pinned to the cobblestones._

_Stunned, Seeker Cristina looked up just as a man cloaked in shadow leapt down and landed atop the barrels at her back. "Come on, before he can finish his fucking monologue!" Victor scrambled down to the ground and shoved the Knight-Captain to her feet, throwing the Guardsman's good arm over his broad shoulder and hauling him away until the man realised what was going on and straightened himself. Coming back to this twisted version of reality, the Seeker parried a swing made by her superior as they passed by, and she heard his cry of indignation as they raced off together at full speed after the dwarf._

" _Your information was incorrect, Victor," Seeker Cristina shouted to him as they made their way through the night streets of Hightown._

" _Yeah, well, you weren't the only one that was betrayed today, unfortunately!" He switched directions and led them down a small path between two estate properties. "This way!"_

_Thinking on her feet, the Knight-Captain offered a suggestion. "We have to make our way back to The Condemned Man – "_

" _We can't," Victor interrupted her regretfully. "That's what I'm trying to tell you; It's been compromised!"_

" _How are we going to get out of here?" The Guardsman's tone was full to the brim with pessimism._

_Victor pointed hurriedly to indicate a change in direction, lowering his voice. "There's an underground passage to Lowtown behind the Chantry. It lets out in the storage cellar of a friend of mine. We should be safe there until the smoke clears."_

" _The Smuggler's Route?! I've been trying to track that down for_ years _," The Knight-Captain practically seethed through her teeth._

" _Then it's a good thing you never found it, or we'd be stuck for a way out of this mess!"_

 _The shock was beginning to wear off, and the anger of true betrayal finally hit her fully. "I never would have believed my own mentor would be behind all of this… I searched for corruption among the_ templars _, but it was within our own ranks all along – and at the_ head _, no less!"_

" _Worry about that later, Cristi," Victor reminded her, though sympathy dripped from his tone. "We've got bigger fish to fry, right now. I can pull a few strings and get you on the next ship outta here, and that'll get you as far as either Rivain or Antiva. You just have to lay low for a few days while I make the arrangements."_

_The Knight-Captain stopped dead in her tracks, fighting for breath. "Out of the question," she argued stubbornly. "There's no way in all damnation that the Lord Seeker is going to run me out of my own city!"_

_Coming up behind her, the Guardsman laid a hand gently on her shoulder, turning the fiery woman to meet his eyes. "Knight-Captain – Darling… Think about this carefully. That man has the power to crush us, if not kill us, all in the pursuit of his own selfish goals. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants… We could be free of all that to live our own lives… We'll give up the beat and live like civvies for once. Wouldn't you love to start a family together? Change our names and leave this stinking, festering den of sin behind to live in the countryside…?"_

_It was a tempting offer – or it would have been, had he offered it to literally anyone else, but he'd offered it to the toughest officer this city had ever seen, and she was not known for giving up so easily. Her fair brows drawing together, she placed a loving hand on his shoulder, hoping to make him understand so that he would help her take back their city._

_But then she noticed where her hand lay, and the words dried up in her throat._

" _Guardsman… your arm," the Knight-Captain observed in a stupor. "It's completely healed… Did you have an extra potion, or – "_

_And as the look on his face changed to one of hardened discipline, the Knight-Captain realised that she had been the last one betrayed on this horrible night. "Oh Maker, no. Not you, too, my love..."_

_The Guardsman said nothing as he straightened, squaring his shoulders until her hand fell limply to her side. Seeker Cristina and Victor came to stand behind her, ready for anything that might follow._

" _You were the one that led us to the courtyard where we were ambushed," her harsh voice trembled through her reluctant accusation. "How did the Lord Seeker know where we would be meeting tonight…? Did he even land a blow with that sword, or was your fight an elaborate pantomime to trick us into believing you were on our side…? Please… tell me I'm mistaken, darling…"_

_Swallowing hard, the Guardsman shook his head once, stiff at having been exposed so foolishly. "My Knight-Captain…" he answered her honestly, "I cannot."_

_Tears blurred her vision, but she refused to let them flow, the pain in her throat ripping through her words. "All this time, Guardsman. You used my love for you as a weapon against me. You seduced me so you could lead me directly into a trap that your master had set." Bitterness stung her as she turned away, walking past the Seeker and her informant. "You're fired, Guardsman. Go._ Now _. I never want to see you within the city walls again."_

" _Wait," the Seeker hindered her progress, laying a hand on her arm as she caught up within a few steps. "He knows about the Smuggler's Route. If we let him go, he'll run straight back to Lord Seeker Lukis and reveal our location…"_

_Harsh realisation dawning on her, the Knight-Captain made an about-face, hesitating to ask him the unthinkable. "Would you truly do that to us?" She finally managed to breathe out, glaring openly to stave off her tears. "After everything we've been through together…?"_

_His reluctance was obvious, but he nodded truthfully all the same. "I have my orders, and I will follow them to the letter… I'm sorry, my Knight-Captain."_

_Lowering his head, the Guardsman turned and made it a few steps back down the alleyway before the tip of her sword emerged from his chest. Blood flowed like a broken fountain from his mouth in place of words, and she laid her hand on the small of his back as he hit his knees._

" _Not as much as I am," she replied, her heart tearing with remorse. "You and I," the Knight-Captain whispered longingly, a sob catching in her throat, "we could have been the envy of the world…"_

_His wheezy groan echoed off the stone walls surrounding them as she pulled her blade free of his body, and he fell over a grate in the stone floor, his crimson blood dripping into the drainage system like so much rain. Standing over his body, the tears fell silently from her eyes as she watched until he ceased twitching._

" _Get him into this barrel," Victor instructed quietly. "After that, we've got some ground to cover before we're in the clear, tonight."_

" _I…" Seeker Cristina stammered, unable to find suitable words to comfort the stricken Knight-Captain. "I'm sorry, dear friend."_

_Nodding in silence, the Knight-Captain sheathed her sword and moved to gather the lifeless body in her arms. "I'm not," she muttered through her despondency._

Another piercing roar echoed in the distance to the north, tearing Varric away from his careful editing. He looked up from his shaded spot beneath the trees, shielding his eyes from the sun with a gloved hand, unable to make out anything. The requisition officer looked nervous, her constant pacing increasing in speed with every howling blast the creature made. It was impossible to see what was going on through all these trees, their twisting branches hiding the fact that the Emerald Graves sported many dangers, from giants to great bears, cultists to dragons. The pitfalls and dangers were taking a toll on them, and Team B was ordered to stay put at camp in case the Inquisitor needed one of them at any given moment. He'd used that time to complete the rest of the chapter for Cassandra, hoping it would cheer her up from whatever was troubling her, but the situation looked like it might be heating up, forcing the merchant dwarf to store the chapter in his pack and join the fold.

The Iron Bull was vigorously attempting to keep a lid on his adrenaline, running a sharpening stone along his enormous double-sided axe, which had been claimed from the body of an Avaar warrior, while Sera sat fidgeting next to him, tapping her foot impatiently and tightly crossing her arms over her chest as though trying to physically restrain herself. Nodding as he passed the perimeter, Varric searched the camp with a cursory glance, noting that Madam de Fer and Dorian had finished their bandaging of a bruised and beaten Blackwall. The atmosphere was charged throughout camp, and Varric silently hoped Cassandra was having better luck against the beast than the man on the ground gulping water from his canteen.

"All right?" Varric mumbled his opening line as he lowered himself to sit at his friend's side, unstrapping Bianca and laying her over his lap.

Blackwall let out a wet cough, smiling wryly at the dwarf's words. "Yeah, all right," he replied, taking another sip of water to ease his throat.

Retrieving a spare cloth, Varric spat into it cleanly and ran it over Bianca's stock, having run out of his supply of oils. "Sounds brutal over there. Everyone's acting like spooked horses; can you feel it? It's oppressive."

"It _is_ brutal," Blackwall admitted in frustration, leaning back against a moss-covered rock, "but at least it's not snowing. Or pissin' it down with rain. Or the surface of the bloody sun."

"That's the key: stay positive, Hero," Varric grinned, wiping away at a stubborn spot of dirt.

"Me? Positive?" Blackwall chuckled softly to himself, readjusting his sore leg. "I'm positive I should be dead a thousand times over. That's about it, at the moment."

A rustling caught their attention, and everyone turned as one to witness the Inquisitor, Solas, and Cole making their way down the beaten path to the camp – and it wasn't merely the path that was beaten. Plunking herself down, Inquisitor Lavellan grunted angrily, punching her own leg and spewing obscenities in her native tongue as Solas leaned on his staff and rubbed her shoulder supportively, paling alarmingly at her filthy tirade.

Cole drifted through the camp, his head turning automatically toward Blackwall. His eyes darted to the potions table, where he stepped over and retrieved a red vial. Coming to squat down next to the warrior, Cole uncorked the potion and handed it to Blackwall. "Here," he offered it readily, "drink this."

"Cheers, Cole," Blackwall toasted the spirit boy before downing it like a shot of 100-proof whisky. "Ahh, that stings," his voice wheezed before he coughed and pounded a fist against his chest.

"So, what happened, Kid?" Varric inquired, apprehensive of the possibility that it might be his turn next.

Cole's eyes couldn't be seen for all his unkempt hair and dusty hat, but his tone was as innocent as it ever was. "She stepped on my foot. Then she kicked me and I fell down - but I'm okay, now."

"That beast could have done far worse, Cole," Blackwall pointed out, a thumb stuck to his chest in indication. "Just take a gander at me, for instance."

"No, that was the Inquisitor. She didn't mean to, though. She was trying to get away from the big tail."

Brows raising in surprise, Varric turned his attention to Lavellan, who was taking deep breaths to regain control of her anger. It was a good thing Curly had taken her aside after Haven and taught her a few anger management tips in his spare time.

Resting his axe over his shoulder, Bull cracked his knuckles and cricked his neck in anticipation. "Okay, let's get this show on the road, Boss," he said, flexing his pecs and loosening himself up for a fight.

" _Uh-uh_ , you got the last one, right. This one's got _my_ name on it," Sera argued, putting herself forward.

Vivienne examined her nails carefully, not moving from her seat. "I'd offer my assistance to you, Inquisitor, but as you are battling an ice-based creature, my skills don't exactly fall under that purview."

"Meaning you would be utterly useless," Dorian translated slyly, much to the enchantress' chagrin.

"Come on, you gotta pick _one_ of us, Quizzy," Sera insisted, her fists clenching with excitement. "I got new bees an' stuff for this! Or can _both_ of us get stuck in it? Two's better than one, or somethin', yeah?"

Rubbing her temples a moment longer, Lavellan finally sighed and rose to her feet, Solas watching her back carefully. "No, neither of you are coming with us, this time," she stated authoritatively. "Dorian, get your pack."

The Tevinter reeled in shock, nearly falling off of his seat as he struggled to get to his feet. " _What?!"_ his voice blasted involuntarily.

" _What?!_ " Sera and Iron Bull echoed the sentiment, their eyes nearly bugging out of their skulls.

"Wait a second, hear me out on this – "

"Why do you always do this to me?!" Dorian came to stand beside the Iron Bull, gesturing with annoyance toward the qunari and the elf. "Take _those_ two! _They're_ mad enough to go!"

Sera nodded vigorously at this, practically bouncing where she stood. "Yeah, we're _definitely_ mad enough!"

 _"Dorian,"_ Lavellan pressed on with her idea, gripping his forearms for emphasis, "that thing is over there toppling the ruins of my _People_. I'm not in the mood to argue. I need your fire casting to kill this dragon once and for all."

Raising a finger, Solas interjected pedantically, "It's actually a Greater Mistral, _da'len."_

Turning her ire on him momentarily, Lavellan growled, "Oh, by the Dread fucking Wolf, _hahren_ , who _cares?!_ It's a giant ice-spitting lizard!" Throwing up his hands to signal his acquiescence, Solas took a step backward, though the look on his face was brimming with amusement. Satisfied, she met Dorian's eyes fully again. "And that's why we need _you_ , Dor. Let's prove that mages can accomplish anything if they work together!"

The Altus shook his head hesitantly. "But you're bringing Cole along!"

 _"Think_ about it, Dorian," she grinned madly, and Varric began to wonder if she actually was losing her mind over this. "Imagine the songs they will sing about us: Three mages – two elves, a Vint – and a _spirit,_ with _no_ help from warriors, venture out and slay a gods-forsaken _dragon!"_ She shot a warning glance over her shoulder, whereupon Solas bit his tongue and averted his gaze as though something in the higher branches had captured his interest.

"What's the matter, darling?" Vivienne wondered loudly from behind, "Concerned you're the one who might truly be 'utterly useless'?"

Clearly believing he was going to regret his decision, Dorian sighed and closed his eyes. "All right, Lavvy. I'll get my staff."

 _"Not fair,"_ Sera pouted, storming away and closing herself off within the nearest tent. "Frickin' Creepy and Elfy get to have the best day in the history of like ever, an' I'm stuck 'ere with a bunch of angry bees!"

Disappointed, Iron Bull glumly submitted, though his body language betrayed his pent-up frustration. "You're the boss, Boss. Hey Dor," he added, concern in his voice, "be careful out there."

"It's a good thing you reminded me, Bull," Dorian groaned sarcastically, fetching his essentials, "otherwise I might have _forgotten_ to be careful and gone for a ride on its back just for funsies."

"You could still do that; just be careful."

Varric glanced around the camp, a rising panic suddenly hitting him as he realised someone was missing. "Uh… Where's the Seeker?"

Cole stood up, preparing to set off yet again. "She wanted to be alone, so we left her by the river to clean her wounds," he told him quietly, inspecting his daggers absently. "The burns hurt her, but not as much as you did." Offering no clarification, the boy sheathed his weapons and joined his party, ready to depart once more.

Exchanging a puzzled glance with Blackwall, Varric shook his head to clear it, unsure of whether he'd heard the Kid correctly. " _Me?_ What the hell did _I_ do?" He shrugged.

Blackwall shrugged back in bewilderment, cocking his head to the side in thought. Then he froze, his eyes going wide. "Maker's Balls, Varric," he uttered, his bearded jaw going slack. "The boys' night out… Do you think Cass might've heard…?"

Casting his mind back, Varric swallowed roughly against the lump in his throat and buried his face in his hands.

He wasn't going to be able to talk his way out of this one. "Oh, shit."

**~oOo~**

It was beyond humiliating for a Pentaghast to lose in a fight against a dragon, the species of the animal notwithstanding, but despite her prior success and unprecedented focus, her mind had been elsewhere. She should have been able to do what the Inquisitor was asking of her, and it shamed her immensely to have failed so spectacularly. Her pride wounded more than anything, she lowered her numb arm gently into the water, and noted that it felt warm to the touch on the back of her hand. Cupping her right hand, she drank to test the river's temperature, and was unsurprised to find it chilly on her tongue. Drinking her fill, she sighed and brought the injured appendage up for inspection. It would heal easily enough with a warm salve.

Resolving to ask after a bottle from the requisition officer, Cassandra tore the sleeve from her tunic in one swift tug and immersed it in the river before wrapping her hand and lower arm in the cold, damp cloth, soothing it immeasurably. Glancing over, she discovered another abrasion on her shoulder along with a superficial claw mark running the length of her arm, the blood there dry at least. She splashed a bit more water on her other wounds dutifully to clean them out, then sat back on the grass, closing her eyes as a breeze swept down the river, delivering fresh air straight to her.

"Hey."

Cassandra jumped and spun around on the riverbank, coming face-to-face with Varric, who stood awkwardly not five metres from her position. She hadn't expected anyone to come after her, much less him, and she wasn't at all pleased to see the dwarf now. "I'm fine, Varric," she bit curtly. "Go back to camp."

"In a minute," he replied, taking a few steps forward through the grass. He was holding a stack of bound parchments in his hands, shifting it to and fro in his grasp. "I got something for you I think you're gonna like."

Knowing exactly what it was that he offered, Cassandra turned her gaze back toward the river and shook her head in a businesslike manner. "No, thank you." Bringing her knees up, she crossed her arms and rested her elbows upon them, staring at the paintings on the boulders at the other side. "I think perhaps we were becoming too familiar, and that was unprofessional of us. I would prefer that we stopped… whatever that was."

He let out a heavy sigh and walked the short distance to lay the new chapter next to her chest plate, facing the river to avoid making eye contact with her. "What's going on, Seeker?" He asked gravely.

"I honestly don't know," her voice rose a touch louder than either one of them had expected, and she glared suddenly in his vicinity, her heart pounding within her. "Why don't you tell me, unless you aren't sober enough for this conversation?"

He knew exactly what she had meant by that. The way his lip upturned in a grimace revealed just how precise her hit had been. Rubbing his face in aggravation, he let out a contemptuous growl and stepped to his right, turning about quickly to face her. "Look, what do you want me to do about it now, Seeker? It's not my fault! I can't be held accountable for drunken bullshit I spout around my friends!"

Roused to anger, she let out a disgusted noise from deep down and stood, a finger waving in accusation. "Why do you _insist on_ shirking responsibility for your actions? It's  _everyone's_ fault but your own - every time! When you hid the location of the Champion from me, and I found out about it, you _never_ admitted to any wrongdoing! You lied to me then, and you continue to lie even now! You owe me honesty for what you said!"

In that moment, all subtlety had been lost. Varric pressed his lips to a fine line, the gentle forest breeze sending stray ginger strands over his forehead. It was finally time to be frank about everything, so it seemed. "Okay... So I _may_ have misdirected the guys about my private affairs," he conceded gruffly, his eyes narrowing a fraction, "but you did the  _same exact thing_ when Tiny confronted us at my desk, Seeker, so don't act like you're not perpetuating the same damn story as me!"

"How can what I said be considered false?" She countered sadly, "The idea of a dalliance with you _is_ nonsense, but the difference between what I said in the hall and what you said later in the courtyard, is that _I_ did not say you were unworthy of me!"

"What are you _talking_ about?" Varric spat critically, though his gravelly voice faltered slightly, a worry line etching itself between his brows.

Unexpected emotions nearly overwhelmed Cassandra, but she refused to let them get the better of her. Pacing slowly, she waved a hand in the air, revealing her evidence against his case. "Not your _type?_ Not up to your _standards?"_ She faced him, his eyes going wide at her last point: "The thought of _kissing_ me makes you want to _vomit?"_

Varric's jaw dropped lamely as he cast his eyes downward and shook his head regretfully. He brought his hand up to his face and rubbed the bridge of his nose nervously. "Okay, that sounds pretty bad…" As she grumbled and plunked herself back down by the riverside, he threw his arms out in surrender, thoroughly upset with himself, confessing loudly, "Alright, yeah, I get why you're mad! I - I fucked up, I admit it! That was pretty terrible of me to say, but _come on,_ Seeker, you gotta know I didn't mean all that shit!"

"Of course I know," she muttered dejectedly, dipping her makeshift bandages in the stream.

For a few seconds, the sounds of chirping birds and flowing water left his ears, a faint ringing deafening his hearing. It was as though he'd been struck across the face, and it took a long moment before he finally registered her words and conjured up anything to say in response. "…So - wait, why are you…? Okay, I'm lost," he sighed, his arms falling to his sides meekly.

She was silent for nearly a full minute, her throat bobbing each time she swallowed, and she gave up fidgeting with the end of her bandage, instead ripping it off and tossing it on the grass in defeat. The wind picked up again, causing the trees to swish and sway around them, and Varric moved a couple of steps closer so he would not miss her words when they eventually came. Sun rays shone brightly through the leaves, her Seeker armour shimmering on the rock over which she'd laid it.

"I do not want a man who holds me close in secret, but demeans me to anyone else who happens to ask," she spoke softly to the river, her heart splayed open in a state of vulnerability. "I desire a man who declares his adoration for me from the rooftops. Sweeps me off my feet. Gives me flowers. Reads poetry to me by candlelight… Someone willing to court me openly."

" _Court_ you?" Varric blurted, stunned by her admission. "That's a bit... I don't know, _formal_ for you, isn't it?"

Glancing over, her eyes soft and clear, she asked plainly, "I don't deserve to be properly courted?"

"I didn't say – " The dwarf sighed out a pitiful laugh, his hands automatically held out before him defensively. "Look, you're putting me on the spot, here, Seeker… I don't know if I have what it takes to be that guy. I was never any good at this kind of thing. You're asking me to expose myself to you, to my friends, to the world. And that's _exactly_ how guys like me get crushed... Is that really what you want me to do? 'Court' you?"

The Seeker turned her face away again, her scarred jaw clenching as she gritted her teeth together. _"No,"_ she answered obstinately, pushing him away as she shut her walls to him once more.

He stood there in total confusion, waiting for her to add something more, but she offered him nothing in the way of an explanation. For a long while she just sat there, continuing to ignore him and apparently done for her part in the confrontation. His eyes drifted from her back to the long grass at his feet as he weighed the correct thing to say in the moment, but nothing – not even a belated apology – was bound to fix what he'd completely bungled. "Great," he muttered to himself angrily, throwing his hands up in heartfelt defeat as he sighed and turned to walk the trail back to camp.

 _"Ugh,_ I take it back," she cried, stopping him in his tracks as he turned in disbelief to look at her one more time. She shifted to face him, sitting on her knees on the soft earth, her body conveying her own aggravation and desire. "That _is_ what I want! I want the _ideal,_ but you are an insufferable coward and a compulsive liar, Varric! You _cannot_ be the man for me… The Maker would not be that cruel."

Stepping toward her tormented form, Varric came to stand directly in front of her, his troubled eyes locked on her own. "Cassandra," he uttered her name, words failing him miserably. He didn't know what to say or do, paralysed and useless as he was.

She sighed, laying her good hand over the wounded arm and holding it comfortingly. "I know what you see. What everyone sees when they look at me. I am a warrior. I am blunt and difficult and self-righteous." Sniffing loudly, her brows fell sadly, betraying her weakness. "But my heart lies _beneath_ all that… It _yearns_ for these things I cannot have… If you cannot see that…"

"Hey, I see that, Cassandra. I wouldn't lie about something this critical." He bent to pick up her torn sleeve, dipping it in the river and wringing it out before taking her hand and slowly wrapping the cloth around the wound there. "You sat with me in the infirmary for days while I recovered. You prayed for my soul. You held my hand as I cried like a damn baby at Adamant, and you didn't even rat me out for it. You're the one person I _least_ expected to support me through everything that happened, but in the end, you were the only one that pulled me through it... You move me like no other woman ever has, and I'm not used to feeling this way. So I guess I'm no good at the whole relationship thing." He pulled a pin from his belt pouch and secured the end of the rudimentary bandage in place, his calloused hands lingering slightly longer than she anticipated. "I made a shitty mistake by acting like a big shot in front of everybody and tearing you down... But don't think I'm too stupid to see who you really are beneath that stab-happy interrogator thing you got going."

The Seeker hesitated, her breath shallow in her chest. She wanted to believe him, but he'd given her ample reason not to on so many occasions. "It's not enough for you to say these things to me when you have besmirched my name to all others," Cassandra resisted his charm, unconvinced. "Give me something _real_ – something I can trust so that I might place my faith in you again."

He stared at her openly, his eyes studying her with intensity for what felt like hours. Ever so slowly he leaned in, as if giving her a chance to reject his closeness if she so wished. Once Varric knew intuitively that she wasn't about to lean away from him, he placed his hand on the back of her neck and pulled her in, his lips locking with her own for the first time.

It was fleeting, lasting a handful of seconds at most, but the stolen moment of honest expression was among the most powerful Cassandra had ever experienced. Pulling back, he remained near to her for a time, the ends of their noses brushing one another as they fought against their light-headedness for another breath.

"Well," she whispered, feeling his breath on her cheekbone as she inclined her head, "to your credit, you did not vomit."

He let out the breath of a laugh, steadying her with an arm as she leaned back on her heels. "Must be getting better at this," he joked self-deprecatingly. "Maybe I should practice some more to kill off the gag reflex."

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, her brow furrowing with regret at the knowledge of what she must tell him. Rising to her feet, the Seeker gathered her chest plate and tucked it beneath her arm, neatly avoiding Varric's new chapter. "The world hinges on the actions of this Inquisition," she sighed timidly, meeting his glazed eyes in apology. "We face death at every turn, Varric... There is no time for such frivolity."

His face was frozen in a strange expression that she'd never seen him emote before: one of transfixed adoration. "So what? We have several options we can explore together. They're all terrible, but they're options. What we face with the Breach doesn't change anything at all."

Shaking her head, Cassandra disagreed, though it pained her to do so. "It changes everything… As you would say, it is not in the cards for us… I regret that it would not be wise to explore this further."

Shrugging, Varric didn't seem to be deterred in the slightest. "I'm not a very wise man, Seeker. I think I've proven that much."

Scoffing under her breath, the warrior took long strides, eager to quell the feelings brewing in her heart. "Beyond a shadow of a doubt," she muttered, though she couldn't help glancing back in his direction one last time.

**~oOo~**

Blackwall was snoring away in the open forest air when he was awoken by the commotion at the centre of camp. Team A had returned at some point while he rested, a little more worse for wear, but the Inquisitor was grinning from ear to pointed ear. Next to her, Dorian stood like a majestic lion, obviously the man of the hour with his chest puffed out with raging pride. Solas and Iron Bull were slapping him on the back in congratulations, while Vivienne offered a mock-clap and bow, returning to her tea as though nothing of note had transpired. Sera was nowhere to be seen, likely out and about trying to one-up the necromancer.

Someone let out a gruff, pining sigh to his left, and he shifted to acknowledge his friend. "Ah, Varric," Blackwall greeted him in surprise. "Any luck finding the Lady Seeker?"

Varric's shoulders slumped dreamily, taking the man aback. "Yeah," the dwarf answered, staring at nothing in particular, an odd look plastered on his face.

Eyeing him critically, Blackwall's dark, bushy brows came together. "What's gotten into you? Did she knock you clear off your feet again?"

His smile broadened a touch. "Maybe."

Blackwall looked around, not catching sight of Cassandra Pentaghast through all of the celebratory commotion. "… _And?"_ He urged the archer to continue.

"And…" Varric sighed, turning his head to meet the man's eyes. "I think… I might actually love her… A little."

Astounded, he ran a bruised hand through his jet black hair, letting air out of one side of his mouth slowly. "Oh. Well… Good on you, lad, but… _Fuck."_

"What's the problem, Hero?"

Blackwall sighed, shaking his head in dismay. "I owe Bull another bloody sovereign."


	14. Confidentiality Agreements

_They are gone… You are safe at last…_

_Darling, I'm here now… Take my hand…._

_Who are you…? Why would you save me…?_

_Oh, but my love… It was you who saved me…_

Her heart quickened at the sound of soft, slow whispers, uttered from somewhere beyond her reach and unspeakably far away. Rousing quietly, Cassandra's eyes fluttered open to the light of day, taking in her surroundings through the sleep-induced haze, those words echoing insistently in her ears. The strange voices faded from her waking mind as she turned her head on the pillow, the objects around her an unfocused mesh of shape and colour. Blinking against the blur, she scrunched her eyes shut to try again, and the interior of the crimson tent came into view... Nearly.

Coming to herself more fully, she noticed for the first time a hand laying over her own in concern, and closed her eyes in momentary contentment. Turning her palm up, she gave the fingers a gentle squeeze. "You needn't have troubled yourself," she tried to reassure her companion, clearing her sleepy throat. "I am all right… But regardless, thank you for staying."

"It was no trouble, Cassandra."

That wasn't Varric's hoarse voice in the slightest. And it certainly wasn't his hand she now grasped, come to think of it. Her heart rising to her throat, the Seeker's eyes went wide, and without a second thought she sat up straight on her cot.

"Inquisitor!"

The Herald's large elven eyes rounded at the warrior's reaction as she pulled her hand away, and they narrowed again as she asked curiously, "Yes, me. Just who else were you expecting?"

Feeling suddenly exposed despite being fully clothed, Cassandra found the edge of her standard-issue wool blanket and held it in her fist as she pulled it back over a leg, still attempting to catch her breath. "Oh… I don't know… Varric, perhaps," she admitted sheepishly, fixing the pleated crown around her head to avoid looking at the woman directly.

The Inquisitor stifled a giggle rather unsuccessfully, betraying her obvious scepticism at the very idea. "No, he was here for a bit, but I had orders for him. I split the teams up and sent them out to complete the remaining tasks on their own… I was hoping you, me, and Cole could go out and look for the information Cullen wanted regarding Samson – once you were awake and fit to travel, I mean." Glancing down at her bandage, Lavellan nodded toward the torn sleeve and asked, "How's your hand doing?"

Flexing it tentatively, Cassandra wiggled her fingers before clenching them into a tight fist. "Better, Inquisitor. I have no doubt that I will be capable of holding my shield again…" Noticing the green glow framing the Herald's face, she stiffened, sitting up worriedly. "…How is _your_ hand?"

"Ah… Better…" Lavellan replied awkwardly, appearing to avoid the subject entirely as she leaned to her left and picked up a bound stack of parchments. "Cassandra, have you had a chance to read any of this?"

Recognising it readily enough, she scoffed and tossed the blanket aside. "How did _that_ get in here?" She protested, shooting an accusatory glance toward the centre of camp before rubbing at her eyes with the back of her arm. _"Ugh, Varric."_

"This is really good, actually," she commented absently, skimming the last few pages as she spoke. "You should try to get through some of it before we set out."

"I'd prefer not to, if it can be avoided," the Nevarran sighed out her frustration, finding her boots and slipping them on before tightening the ankle straps. "If you must speak, let it be of other things."

Thoroughly surprised, Lavellan paused in her perusing, the tent around them dancing with sunlight shining through the swaying tree branches overhead. As the anchor silently died down again, much to their shared relief, she wondered, "Are you done with _Swords and Shields?_ I thought you loved this stuff."

Eliciting a quiet, disgusted growl automatically, her face gradually began to turn visibly red. "I don't know whether you have noticed, Inquisitor, but my hands are full enough as it is without tales of romance to occupy my time."

Lavellan shook her head, ready to counter her excuse. "Come on, Cassandra, you need to have a hobby. Solas paints, Cullen plays chess, Blackwall carves, Sera… Well, she bakes when she's not setting booby traps around Skyhold… But it's not a mortal sin to take time for yourself, even in these times. In fact, it's essential for your well-being!"

Cassandra grabbed her chest plate and eyed the Inquisitor critically. "Did _he_ put you up to this?! I swear, that – _that_ _– !"_

"Okay, okay, I'll let it go," she smiled light-heartedly, closing the chapter and tapping the cover page indicatively, "but you're missing out, Cass! It turns out the Guardsman – "

"Don't _tell me!"_ Instantly, the Seeker launched herself forward and snatched the chapter from the Inquisitor's small hands. She looked up just enough to see the victorious smile spread over the Dalish's face, and felt embarrassment flood her hot cheeks once again."Very well," she relented reluctantly, "so you do not _ruin_ it for me, I shall read it, but do _not_ tell Varric I did so… This is the _last_ time."

Lavellan placed her hands on her thighs and hoisted herself up to stand, preparing to leave her be. "Ah, the immortal words of a hopeless addict," she sighed softly, moving to the entry flaps and parting them as she stepped out. "Take your time with it. I'll come back after I have everything – "

The warrior glanced up in alarm at her sudden silence and noticed her frozen stance immediately. "Uh… Cassandra?" The elf muttered softly, waving her hand to bring the woman to her feet. "You have got to see this."

"What?" Setting Varric's chapter down on the cot, she rose quickly and was at the elf's side in a single stride, searching in vain for the sword that was indeed not strapped to her hip. Following her wide-eyed gaze, though, Cassandra found herself standing as still as the Inquisitor, if not more.

The spirit boy sat across the fire from them, humming a strange song quietly to himself… covered from hat to boots in crawling, fluttering butterflies of varying sizes and vibrant colours. Noticing their stares, Cole raised his head slowly and smiled genuinely at them. "They _like_ me," he beamed happily, careful not to disturb the insects' curious exploration of his form. "They think I'm a flower."

After a moment more of baffled staring, Lavellan turned to look Cassandra fully in the face, her features blank with realisation. "Oh, Creators," she said breathlessly, an odd smile touching her lips, "I think I'm going to keep him."

Rolling her eyes at this, Cassandra made an about-face and was one step away from stalking back over to her cot when suddenly Cole's voice interrupted her grumbling departure. "He writes to make it right, but then something changes. A rare smile makes the words worth his while… And she tastes the tenderness on the tip of his tongue, the truth finally setting them free…" He stared earnestly at the Seeker then, uttering cryptically, "Don't be afraid to give away your smile. It's his _reason…"_

The warrior craned her neck, listening with a racing heart and blushing cheeks as Lavellan appeared flummoxed by his words. Undaunted, the spirit followed yet another wave of emotions coming from Cassandra, catching a fragrance only he could detect. "Dreams once dead have such soft whispers, ghostly faces and gentle tears. A prayer answered at last, there in the dark."

Standing up, the butterflies were startled by Cole's quick movement and took off as one, scattering in all conceivable directions. "He made it through the Fade, Cassandra. You heard the echoes of his heart. He is healed, whole, home again… You don't have to hurt, anymore."

Swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, the Seeker nodded her acknowledgement of his words, a burden she had not known she'd carried all this time lifted from her shoulders. After a moment more, she left Lavellan's side and turned to walk the few steps to her cot, brown eyes glancing about aimlessly until they finally rested on the chapter he had left at her side.

Her hand slightly shaking, she sat down and wrapped her fingers around the twine, pulling the parchments into her lap, now more than willing to immerse herself in the story before she was forced to spend the afternoon with that strange creature and his eerie ability to glimpse into her very soul.

**~oOo~**

In the westernmost area of the Emerald Graves, another elf was studiously bent over his work, head buried in an astrarium as he deciphered the ancient constellations. The magic woven into this technological marvel allowed him to connect the stars at a glance, filling his spirit with a wonder that never quite depreciated, no matter how many times he undertook the task throughout Orlais and Ferelden. As his eyes followed the last line, the constellation locked in place and came into view, and he smiled to himself – not at his own success, but at witnessing the iridescent beam of light blaze through the trees, pointing them in the direction of the hidden cache of loot and supplies, the final piece of the puzzle solved. The marvels of the arcane never ceased to fascinate and overwhelm him with a sense of great pride… and a niggling pang of inescapable nostalgia.

"Let me see if I have this all straight in my head, Varric," Blackwall's deep barrel of a voice cut through the elf's reminiscing. The warrior was laboriously skinning the corpse of a Great Bear they had culled before Solas had turned his attention to the astrarium. "She was upset about that night because she knew you were lying through your bloody teeth to us."

Varric stood not far away, leaning against the bark of a memorial tree, planted in honour of the _elvhen_ that had given their lives in defence of their land and way of life. One tree of many thousands, Solas reminded himself sadly. "So far, so good," the dwarf commented, crossing his arms over his low-cut overcoat.

Making a strategic cut along the bear's underside, Blackwall continued, "And she said she wants to be courted as a lady should, but not by you, because you're a cagey little bastard."

He sighed and nodded, shrugging away his dismay at the man's blunt words. "Basically, yeah, that's the gist of it. But I still don't get why you bet against me!"

Laughing to himself under his breath, Blackwall replied, "Women of honour don't deserve scoundrels like us. We're lucky to get a passing glance and should be satisfied with only that, if we get one. That, and she hates your guts – or so I figured."

"What can I say?" Varric smirked, retrieving Bianca from her holster and checking the bolt feed for jams. "The heart wants what it wants."

"Regardless of what the mind has to say on the matter, it seems," he grumbled his retort.

Narrowing his ice blue eyes, Solas looked from one to the other in mild confusion, not having paid much attention to the preceding conversation. "What are we meant to be discussing, now?" He asked plainly, hopeful that he could be filled in quickly.

Blackwall wiped the sweat from his brow, unintentionally leaving a smear of bear's blood on his forehead, and nodded at Varric in indication. "He has a thing for the Lady Seeker. And _apparently_ she for him, if you can take his fucking word for it."

"What - really?" Shaking his head, Solas leapt down from the small hill to meet them and assisted Blackwall by slowly separating the hide from the muscle of the animal with his bare hands. "Are there not more pressing matters to concern ourselves with these days than endless romantic intrigue?"

Chuckling gruffly, Blackwall looked up from his task, his bracers covered in crimson blood. "Says the guy dating the _Inquisitor,"_ he smirked, a glint in his dark eyes.

Pausing, Solas' smooth head shot up, his pointed ears burning at the warrior's words. Seeing his startled reaction, Varric stifled a chuckle and held his hands up defensively. "Hey, it's not exactly classified information, Chuckles! I've heard you call her _vhenan_ more times than I can count, and I encountered enough Dalish on my adventures with Hawke to recognise that word when I hear it."

Brushing the awkward revelation aside, Solas held the hide up and away from Blackwall as he continued to cut the fur free, pushing back the folds as he went. "Duly noted… I'm simply a bit surprised, Varric. I don't recall either of you having uttered a single kind word to the other in all the time I have witnessed."

"We've been playing it pretty close to the vest, admittedly. I figured if I ever made a move, she'd strangle me on the spot. Never expected her to spring it on _me,_ but I'm not complaining." He holstered Bianca, jumping down from the tree root and finding the length of thick rope in his pack. "Got any advice? You must've done something elaborate to win over the Herald of Andraste herself."

Grunting as he folded the heavy hide back, Solas wiped the beading sweat from his brow. "The Inquisitor was the one who sought _my_ affections, actually. I had no intentions of becoming… involved, as it were, but she persisted… and I admire her stubbornness on the matter."

"You're lucky, Chuckles, in an… odd sort of way. Given Dalish customs, at least you don't have to ask Lavellan's parents for permission to see her – they being dead and all, after the attack on her village. I bet they'd chase you away from their daughter armed to the _teeth,_ if they could. The age gap alone would probably disturb them."

The dwarf's words struck closer to home than Varric could ever know, however Solas made no hint of his unease to his companions. He instead chuckled ruefully, but even still he could not help himself at least a touch. "No doubt that assessment is entirely accurate on innumerable levels, Master Dwarf. Though their deaths are regrettable to say the least, I am indeed fortunate not to have them on my tail."

Turning his gaze to Blackwall, Varric raised his brows in curiosity. "What about you, Hero?"

Grunting with strain, Blackwall came up for air for a second, panting as his brow furrowed in annoyance at being thus interrupted. "I'm sorry, Varric, I was working my _balls_ off down here while you were standing over there _chatting away_. What could I possibly have to add?"

"Hey, _you're_ the one who said guys like us don't stand a chance at getting the girl, and I know you're referring to your little infatuation with Ruffles! So, how do no-good 'scoundrels like us' punch above our weight?"

"We don't," he replied matter-of-factly, finally carving the hide free as Solas pulled the fur away and laid it on the dewy grass to prepare for transport. Elaborating for Varric's sake, he continued, "I have no delusions of ever winning the hand of a… radiant jewel like the Ambassador." Wiping his blade clean before sheathing it carefully, he added, "Still, I show her affection with small gestures, say, picking her flowers from the grove outside Skyhold, for example." He raised a finger in emphasis as he left the body of the bear for the wolves to consume. "But if you want to win the heart of a _warrior,_ it's pretty damn straightforward, Varric: court the woman properly, on _her_ terms, and maybe she'll come around to your advances. _Maybe."_

Fiddling with his golden earring, Varric looked away and walked over to the elf's side, unravelling the rope in his hand. "That's… easier said than done," he started hesitantly, watching as Solas worked to dry the underside of the hide with a cloth. "I've been thinking about it since I last spoke to her, and an official relationship is… Ah, I don't know if I can risk that – not right now, anyway."

Solas stopped the proceedings, raising his eyes to meet the dwarf's, a worry line creasing lightly between his brows. "Do you not wish to be coupled with her?" He asked in confusion, not understanding the dilemma being presented.

Varric hemmed and hawed, clearly plagued with indecision as he squatted down and winced visibly. "I _do_ in a way, but… I can't just declare it to all of Thedas like she thinks a man ought to. I mean, do you _know_ how many enemies I have who would jump at the first opportunity to come after _any_ woman I got involved with? Shit, my own _brother_ left me for dead in a thaig! I don't put anything past even my own flesh and _blood_ anymore, much less people who jot my name down on their naughty list." He sighed and shook his head dejectedly. "It's complicated. Damn it, it always is with me."

Solas felt his blood run cold at the notion, understanding all too well what it was that Varric feared. "…That is a fair point," he stated gravely, his eyes losing focus as he turned his thoughts to Lavellan momentarily. "I had not considered that."

Blackwall scoffed at this, tucking the ends of the hide in as he began to roll it methodically toward Solas, whom held the fur taut as he came back to himself. "Now you're just making up excuses so you don't have to make a fool out of yourself," the burly warrior critiqued. "I find it hard to imagine the Lady Seeker falling in battle against a random gang of debt collectors. She's not just some vulnerable little village girl by any stretch of the imagination."

"True," Varric agreed, throwing a glance in his direction, "but I don't want to have to test that theory, either." He seemed to hear his own words for the first time and plunked himself back on the grass, spreading his bent legs and resting his elbows on his knees as he grimaced. "What am I saying? The Seeker doesn't even _want_ to end up with a guy like me! You know… Maybe it's better if I don't go through with this... Besides, she said she was too wrapped up in her duties to the Inquisition… Sheesh, she can't afford to be distracted by a relationship, anyway."

Solas' teeth involuntarily gritted together, clenching his jaw tightly at those words, and his fingernails dug into the thick fur, knuckles going pure white. His heart began to ache within his chest, blue eyes fixed with fear and doubt. If Cassandra considered herself too preoccupied to pursue a relationship with Varric, then how much more was the Inquisitor herself…? But no, that could not be the case, surely. It was more likely that Cassandra was using her position as a shield against Varric in the hopes that he would soon lose interest in her… Right?

Blackwall's own thoughts seemingly headed in the same direction as his own, though he possessed the ability to voice them that Solas momentarily lacked. "Maybe Cassandra's trying to find a way to let you down gently."

 _"'Gently'?_ Nah," Varric chuckled at his choice of words, "if she wanted me to back off, I'd know it by now. And I'd have the scars to remember it by. Trust me."

Pausing in consideration as Blackwall finally reached his end of the hide, Solas wiped his bloodied hands on a nearby leaf, pondering aloud, "Perhaps I should see what can be done to alleviate Cassandra's duties for a time and allow you the opportunity to sway her opinion." Thinking quickly, he suggested helpfully, "If you like, I can speak with the Inquisitor regarding the matter. I'm sure Lavellan would understand if – "

"No way, Chuckles," Varric waved a dismissive hand, rejecting the offer outright. Registering the elf's stunned expression, he clarified, "I mean, I appreciate you wanting to use your influence to give me some time to work this out and everything, but I wouldn't tell Lavellan anything I wouldn't be comfortable with literally everyone else in the damn _keep_ knowing... No offence to your girlfriend," he added belatedly.

Solas swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his dry throat, and he looked away, the worry line between his brows growing ever more apparent. A cold lump solidified in his stomach as he placed a hand on his angular chin, deep in thoughts he would rather be left unspoken. "…Very well, child of the stone," he acquiesced quietly, "I will respect your desire to maintain secrecy."

"Varric," Blackwall grumbled in disapproval as he wound the rope around the hide and tightly secured a knot in place, "if you wanted to keep it quiet, _why_ are you telling us all of this?"

Sighing, Varric shrugged and stood up to his full height, stretching his back to relax his tense muscles. "Eh, I needed a second opinion! Besides, from what I've seen, you're pretty good at keeping things to yourself unless it's absolutely necessary, Hero, so I trust you to not go spreading this around."

Wariness taking hold, Solas cleared his throat and effected an outward calmness as he wondered, "And why would you also disclose this information to me?"

Pausing for a moment to consider the older elf, Varric eventually admitted flippantly, "Well, if you've got anything to hide, Chuckles, I don't know about it. That's pretty solid indication that you're good at keeping secrets, too, right?"

His brows raising a hair, Solas nodded once, returning his attention to his task. "A clever observation to have made, given your reasoning, Varric. I suppose it's just luck that I have no secrets to reveal."

"All I can do now is explain the situation to her," Varric sighed, adjusting his leather gloves and pulling them up his wrists. "Hopefully she'll understand my concern. Come on, look at this face; the Seeker can't stay mad at me for long!"

"Are we still talking about the same person?" Blackwall grunted as he stood, hauling the heavy fur up and over his broad shoulder.

Varric followed Blackwall through the trees in the direction of camp, where they would hang the fur out to dry before heading for the location of the hidden cache. "Hey, remember to stay positive! If she dropkicks me, at least it saves you paying out to Tiny!"

"The only thing I'm positive about _now_ is that _you'll_ be the one paying for it," he glowered, controlling his breathing as he hauled the cumbersome weight along. Eventually noticing someone missing, he shot a glance toward Varric and stopped to turn sideways, the hide luckily swinging clear over the dwarf's head harmlessly. "Where's Solas gone?" He asked, slightly baffled that the apostate was not walking beside him.

Surprised, Varric turned as well, looking back in the direction from which they had come and spotting Solas, whom stood and slowly made to join them once again, considerably more introverted than usual. His face was hollow and distraught from a distance, but he quickly reworked the expression to one of scholarly attentiveness as he approached them.

"Hey, you okay there, Chuckles?" Varric wondered cautiously, his head tilting slightly as his eyes narrowed, unease in his tone.

"Why do you ask?" He tested rather guardedly, though something resembling regret still managed to bleed through his voice.

Sharing a wary glance with Blackwall, Varric met the elf's eyes, which appeared heavier of mind than they had not an hour before. "You look a little pale, is all."

Retrieving the staff from his back, Solas kept his gaze averted and looked up, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. "Pay me no mind, Master Tethras," he answered finally, his voice oddly distant and professional. "We should find this cache before dusk falls upon us and the wolves begin their hunt for the evening. Doubtless they will catch the scent of the carcass and be attracted to this area, soon enough, so I suggest we move on."

As Solas passed them and headed for the nearby camp, Varric looked to the man next to him for clarity on what had just transpired, his brows raised in interest. Oblivious to the reason behind the sudden shift in companionable atmosphere, Blackwall simply shrugged with his only available shoulder and let Solas go ahead, ready and willing to move forward with their quest and leaving the wandering elf to lead on in contemplative, overbearing silence.

**~oOo~**

The nights before returning to Skyhold were always Varric's favourites. With no threats or enemies left to speak of, it gave the gang a brief respite in their duties while the Inquisition soldiers guarded their camp, allowing the others to do with the time whatever they chose. Evenings sharing their dinner and trading tales of the day were not uncommon themes, and they had done so some hours ago, judging by the position of the half-moon in the sky. Though Cassandra had been sitting next to him by the fire for the duration of supper, she had retired early, requiring rest before she rose at dawn to prepare for their departure as she always did, taking responsibility for everyone like a true leader would.

Solas had been particularly introspective for the remainder of the day, but seemed to brighten a fraction at sight of Lavellan's adoring smile of greeting. They too had left for the confines of their respective tents, choosing to rest apart most of the time, though Varric didn't doubt that they probably spent most nights together in the Fade exploring something or other in there. Still mulling over Solas' reaction to their earlier conversation, Varric couldn't help but worry that he'd inadvertently shaken the apostate regarding his relationship with the Herald, but he sincerely hoped he hadn't. It was all just talk and speculation on his part, and he prayed Solas hadn't taken it too much to heart.

He sat at the fireside with Dorian, Bull, and Cole, nursing his whiskey out of a flask and listening intently as the others traded stories of the day for a time, taking a load off his mind by focusing his attention beyond his own inner musings. The Tevinter mage was so taken with his own wild tale of epic battle against the Greater Mistral that Varric was certain Dorian was about as accurate in the details as he would have been – that is to say not at all, and possibly playing up his own role in the fight for dramatic effect.

"And so there I stood," Sparkler recounted the events in dramatic fashion, "face-to-face with the giant beast, its terrible eyes locked on mine. The Inquisitor was down, and Solas had moved to her side to rouse her. I don't quite recall where Cole was, come to think of it. Cole, where did you slink off to?"

The compassionate spirit looked up, happy to be included in the story. "I was near one of her legs. You couldn't see me. I could see you, though. You were very brave."

"Yes, _that's_ right," Dorian confirmed readily, snapping his fingers as his memory returned. "I kept her focus on me to allow you an opportunity to strike! Then she let out a roar to intimidate me, and I shot her directly through the mouth with my flame staff."

"She didn't like that very much," Cole added thoughtfully.

"No, she certainly wasn't too fond of that line of attack," the mage smiled, bracing his hands on his thighs.

"Come _on,"_ the qunari coaxed Dorian along, "get to the good stuff! I want to hear you tell it again!"

Varric let out a gruff laugh, taking another cautious sip before remarking cynically, "Tiny, haven't you heard this enough times to tell it yourself, by now?"

"Yeah, but I like when Dorian tells it," Bull replied with a grin. "Puts a raging fire in my belly."

Cole's hat shot up at that, a look of frightful concern on his face as he stared open-mouthed at Bull's stomach, which made Varric involuntarily spray a mouthful of the hard liquor at the fire, the flames rising for a moment before returning to normal. "Shit," he choked, "you should have seen the look on the Kid's face!"

"Just an expression, Cole," he waved a large hand dismissively before swatting at a curious fly that had landed on his knee.

"To keep her attention on me," Dorian continued unabashed, "I shouted, 'You won't take me today, beast! I'm too pretty to die!' I summoned every ounce of mana around me then, and focused it to slow _time itself,_ making –"

He was interrupted by the sudden appearance of an obviously exhausted Sera, whom plodded over in naught but her long-johns and took a seat on a log near Varric's side of the campfire.

"Ah, Sera," Dorian grinned, his elegant moustache twitching with delight, "good of you to join us! I was just getting to the best bit, and I'm sure you're on pins and needles to hear how this ends."

"Not _really,"_ she grumbled in annoyance, avoiding his gloating eyes and noticing the silverite flask in Varric's hand. "Any of that left or did ya finish it off, already?"

Furrowing his brow, the dwarf gave the flask a shake before extending his arm, and she took it gratefully, gulping down the whiskey greedily. She wiped at her mouth and rested her elbows on her knees, not offering his flask back as per the unwritten rules of drink-sharing. "Aw'right," Sera started with frustration, turning a hard gaze on him, "what'd you do to 'er _now_ , arse-face?"

Slightly amused, Varric smirked and crossed his thick arms over his chest hair. "Why do I get the feeling I'm about to be accused of something I didn't do?" He wondered aloud, sharing a grin with Dorian and Bull companionably.

"Playing innocent, eh?" She huffed and crossed her legs, her ankle resting on her thigh as she tapped her foot in mid-air. _"Somebody's_ put 'er off. Right then, _you_ get the cot next to the snivelling _she_ -warrior. Hard-pressed to get _any_ sleep in this stupid forest." She thumbed forcefully toward the tent from which she had emerged in frank indication, clearly fed up with the course her evening was taking, thus far.

The Iron Bull leaned forward, his hand braced on a knee. "You _do_ know you punch in your sleep, right, Sera? Closed-fisted, full-force?"

Sera looked irritated enough to do exactly as Bull described. "Okay, so, _one:_ I wasn't sleepin' – _tryin'_ to, but no luck with Princess Sniffles, there; pay attention, right? – And _two:_ she isn't like Dorian; if I punch _him_ while rollin' over, he weeps in a corner like a whiny little –"

" _Fasta vass,_ Sera, I'm right here!"

"Point is:  _she_ punches me back. So I know it wasn't me. Not this time, yeah?"

Varric was awash with confusion and concern during all this, stiffening in place on the tree stump. It didn't take a scholar to figure out to whom Buttercup was referring, but he was awkwardly conflicted as the two men across the fire fell silent and began to study him for tells, Cole staring in anticipation of his impending exodus.

Deciding to play it cool, he cleared his throat and rose, stretching his limbs as though he was growing weary, though in truth he could have stayed up for several more hours just shooting the breeze with the boys. "Well, better go find out what that's about, I guess, since no one _else_ is getting up to check," he excused himself nonchalantly. "Sparkler. Tiny. Kid. Buttercup," he nodded to all in turn, "catch you in the morning."

"Okay, Varric," Cole replied quietly. "I hope she feels better soon."

"Yes, pleasant dreams, Varric," Dorian pursed his lips contemplatively. Shaking his head suddenly, he amended, "Oh, actually, no! How does one – Oh, never mind, you know what I meant. Sleep well!"

Waving goodnight, Varric passed through the scarlet flap of the tent and waited for his eyes to adjust slowly to the darkness surrounding him. The moonlight and the dancing flames of the campfire somewhat penetrated the darkness of their shelter, but not entirely enough, and he turned to tie the door shut securely, which robbed him of yet more light. Relying on his hearing alone, he turned and sensed the Seeker laying nearby to his left, and he removed Bianca, his boots, and leather overcoat, placing them off to the side before moving slowly for the sound of her congested breathing. Once he found his cot, he placed his hands on either side and shifted it against her own before climbing in, laying on his side and propping himself up on an elbow.

She was awake; that much he could tell by her breathing and stillness alone, but she was obviously doing her damnedest to appear unconscious. He wasn't falling for it in the slightest. "Seeker?" He whispered, massaging her shoulder in a circular motion. She didn't respond, instead sniffing softly and wiping quickly at her eyes, still faced away from him as he continued to rub her compassionately.

After a short time, he pulled back on her shoulder to get her to turn, and eventually she relented to his insistence, shifting beneath the Great Bear furs and laying on her right side. She said nothing to him, but her silence spoke more to her sadness than even her open admittance of her emotions could have. "Do you want to talk about it?" He asked her quietly, abruptly worried that Blackwall or Solas had relayed their earlier conversation to her. If they had, he would have some explaining to do, and he might not be able to talk his way back into her good graces again.

Cassandra sniffed once more, Varric kneading the new shoulder comfortingly, and she at last felt ready in herself to open up. "The…" She paused, wiping at her nose and burying her face in her feather pillow. "The Guardsman… Damn it, Varric, I knew you would kill off one of them…"

The dwarf's newly-shaven jaw dropped slowly, piecing together the reason behind her rare tears. "…So Buttercup was right; I _did_ do something, this time," he uttered, sighing in the peaceful stillness around them. "Oh, listen Seeker, I didn't mean to – "

"No. Don't apologise, Varric," she interrupted softly, sitting up and resting her arms on her knees, her head lowered as she closed her tired eyes. "It was wonderful… Heartbreakingly so, but still wonderfully poignant."

The Seeker never ceased to stun him into silence with her many contradictions, and he shifted himself to sit next to her, confusion in his tone as he observed, "Call me crazy, but you're not exactly giving me that impression, right now."

She sat in silence for a time, simply thinking to herself while Varric waited patiently for her to offer an explanation. After a moment's hesitation, he reached out his hand and took one of her own, holding it in support, and she gave his fingers a gentle squeeze as she turned to him, there in the darkness. "Love doesn't always play out the way we hope it will," she started solemnly, swallowing with difficulty before pressing on. "Love can be cruel sometimes. Unkind. Treacherous, even… We cannot predict whether it will fade away, or stand tall through the trials it faces… You were honest about how love, in and of itself, is a great gamble. Whether that risk is taken or not truly comes down to the individual choices we make…"

She turned her head away slightly, as if she felt awkward for having said so, but added, "In a way, it reminded me of myself. My superiors always said I take far too many risks, that I act on instinct without thinking the end result through… I wonder now if I'm not doing the same thing with us, repeating the same mistakes I always do…"

Varric didn't understand why he still felt so uncomfortable talking about their feelings for each other so openly like this. He was more used to subtle flirtation, and found her propensity to speak bluntly of their connection unnerving. It was then that he wished he'd taken his flask back from Sera. These topics were better discussed when his lips were loosened with copious amounts of alcohol. "Can't say as I intended to convey all that," he replied, somewhat dodging her last statement, "but art projects what the viewer puts into it."

He realised belatedly that he'd unwittingly implied she was reading too much into their relationship, and roughly bit his tongue, praying silently that he hadn't just stepped into it with her. Luckily, she appeared not to take it that way, and he breathed an inner sigh of relief that she wasn't prone to twisting his words into the worst possible meaning, anymore.

"Tell me something, Varric," she mused hopefully, her shining eyes meeting his in the extremely dim light, "did the Guardsman ever truly love the Knight-Captain?"

It was an easy answer, but he detected the underlying question she had truly asked and filled in the blanks in his mind, careful with his response. "Well… Yeah, he did, but… he wasn't willing to risk everything for her..." Sighing regretfully, he shook his head and broke the stare, turning away as realisation began to dig an empty hole in his gut. "And… he paid for that decision in the end."

"That makes it all the more tragic, doesn't it? Happy endings are so few and far between…" Lowering her head slowly, she let go his hand and moved herself back down to her cot, facing him as she tucked her legs up slightly for warmth. "But that is the harsh reality of living, and the truth can be meaningful, in its own right…"

Moved by her honest sentiments, Varric felt suddenly guilty for the thoughts he had entertained earlier that afternoon, convinced now that he owed the woman far more than he had planned on giving her previously. Lying down next to her, he pressed his forehead to her own, the metal of his ball chain necklace clicking around his neck, and he breathed in her intoxicating scent, heart beginning to race in his chest. "Hey," he reassured her with a whisper, running his hand over her short hair and tracing her dark braid with his thumb, "I'll try to write you happier endings from now on, Seeker… It's the least you deserve, especially from me."

She sighed softly at his touch, thoroughly comforted by the tenderness of the moment, and closed her eyes slowly in contentment as he wrapped his strong arms around her. "In all honesty, Varric… so long as you're the one writing them, I don't mind how they end… Or how long they last…"

Never in a thousand ages would Varric have imagined such a romantic sentiment from this woman, this brutal interrogator he had once so completely detested with every fibre of his being. All past experiences paled in comparison, bringing him to the stark realisation that the love he now felt for her ran deeper than the depths of any ancient thaig he'd ever explored, any mine he'd ever traversed in search of forgotten treasures. And in that brief glimpse of what could someday be his, there on his cot as he breathed next to her in the night, he felt his heart embrace this breathtaking sensation entirely, swept away by a wave of passion that he barely kept at bay.

Though he wanted to surround the Seeker in this emotion, to drown together with her in a fleeting moment of shameless bliss and be as one flesh, he restrained his overwhelming desires, vowing to himself that he would become the man for which she truly yearned, earning the honour of her bed instead of stealing the opportunity, as he so often had with other nameless women… and to hell with whatever his friends would say about it.

He allowed himself only the touch of her forehead against his lips, her warm body pressed softly to his own as she dozed in his arms. "Did you get up to anything interesting after I left?" He whispered quietly, hoping to hear her voice once more before she was lost to the world around them.

Moaning softly as she stirred, she breathed deeply and let it out before answering drowsily, "We found a large deposit of red lyrium while searching for clues to Samson's weakness for Cullen…"

Smiling softly to himself, Varric kissed her forehead again and rested his smooth chin atop her cropped hair, stroking her back between her shoulder blades. "That's gotta be just about the last of those damned deposits, by now," he commented, his voice growing gruffer as he began to succumb to sleep as well. "What did you do with it…?"

He felt the Seeker smile, her cheek dimpling against his arm as she draped her own over his waist and relaxed her whole body in abandon. "I smashed it," she mumbled dreamily, moving closer against him as she held the dwarf like a pillow in her arms. "…Into a thousand little angry red pieces…"

"…That's my girl," Varric smiled back, his heart swelling with pride as he lightly kissed the end of her nose.

"Hmm," she answered in the stillness, the faint sounds of muffled laughter resuming once again outside their private tent. "I thought you would appreciate that…"

And they slipped off together peacefully into the timeless void only slumber and death itself could deliver.


	15. Of Love and Crossbows

She sat uneasily at her mahogany desk, its surface shined to a blinding sheen. Looking over each and every item placed perfectly on the surface, she triple-checked that every piece was where it was meant to be, that all was in its right place. And indeed everything was…

All except for that blasted cat.

They would be arriving shortly, as the raven flies, and Josephine Montilyet still had no notion of what she was going to tell Varric. Yesterday, Leliana had offered to help her in the search of the keep, but her best scouts had turned up nothing substantial, and in frustration the Orlesian bard had traversed the grounds with a twine ball, a measuring stick, and a handkerchief in hand. Knowing full-well what she was up to, Josephine had called down from the balcony to tell the scheming redhead that Mouse had been located, which seemed to disappoint her greatly. Though it was a lie and Leliana surely knew it, she had breathed a sigh of relief for all of a minute before the anxiety had returned.

In exasperation, she bent to her right and placed her delicate hand on the handle of the bottom drawer, pausing with indecision. Her mother's voice rang clear as a bell in her ears, chastising her for comfort eating, but she couldn't help herself. Sliding the drawer open quietly, she lifted the lid of her small tin and picked out one of the Antivan caramels from the stash her sister had smuggled to her at the Winter Palace, slipping the chewy sweet into her mouth. _The taste of home_ , she thought nostalgically.

"Ambassador?"

She slammed the drawer shut, sitting up straight on her red chair and doing her best to stuff the caramel next to her cheek with her tongue. She hadn't heard him enter. In fact, she hadn't heard anyone enter since her office door had been repaired last week. "Commander," she mumbled around the sweet candy, swallowing a bit and tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind an ear. "How can I be of service to you, today?"

Cullen strode over, his eyes locked on a missive as he bit his lip in meditative thought. "No, nothing, Josephine. I saw the Inquisitor and her men arrive through the gate just a moment ago, so I thought I'd make my way to the War Room now rather than wait for her to call the council." He glanced up then with a charming smile before it disappeared from his face, his brows coming together in confusion. "What's that you've got in your mouth?"

His face relaxed after a moment as he registered her nervous state, and he deduced immediately what she had been sneaking. " _Tsk, tsk_ ," he tutted, "what would your mother say?"

"Most assuredly something unnecessarily biting about my waistline," she muttered around the mouthful. "You should try dealing with the calibre of aristocrats in _my_ circles, Cullen, and we shall see how _you_ choose to cope with their entitled demands."

Laughing softly, Cullen pocketed the missive and crossed his arms over his chest plate. "I already tried that at the Winter Palace, and I'm _still_ waiting for feeling to return to my bottom. You should learn to relax now and then, Josephine," he advised rather unhelpfully. As if it was simply that easy – were it, she'd have long-since done that, wouldn't she have? "Perhaps an hour's quiet meditation would suit you, to start with. It can't be good for your nerves to be perpetually on edge like this. I could show you, if you have time."

Ignoring his calculating stare, she turned her attention to retrieving her candle board and quill, sighing as she stood up and swallowed the last of her treasured candy. "When I have an hour to spare, perhaps I will take you up on your kind offer. In the meantime, we have business to attend to."

"So what is it that has you on edge, this morning?" He asked her conversationally. Josephine glanced up just enough to catch the slightest smirk on his face as he turned to open the door for her that led to the long corridor.

The Commander was clearly doing what he could to help alleviate her frustrations, and she knew he wouldn't mind if she let decorum slide for just a moment. Even still, she composed herself gracefully as she walked steadily down the hallway, reluctantly admitting, "Varric entrusted Mouse into my care, but I haven't laid eyes on her since the day he left my study for the Dales! I was so looking forward to cuddling on cold nights with her, and now I must somehow explain why I have no idea where she is! I tell you, this is a total disaster!"

"You told _me_ you found her days ago."

She spun on her shining heels to find the Spymaster herself following them through the door and walking to where she stood at the window. Having been caught off-guard, Josephine sputtered for a moment before breathing deeply and closing her eyes. "Leli, ah… Good morning to you. Yes, that is correct," she lied coolly, trying to weasel her way out of the corner she'd pinned herself in, "I _had_ found her briefly, but… she disappeared again. She _is_ an elusive one, is she not?"

Arching an amber brow, Leliana clasped her hands behind her back, her hood pulled over her hair and affecting an intimidating presence. "If you think I cannot yet tell when you are lying, Josie, you may want to re-evaluate your strategy." Interested in this mild accusation, Cullen's brows raised as he turned to the Ambassador, a touch of humour in his scarred smile.

Scoffing in exasperation, Josephine all but threw her hands up, instead choosing to hold her board to her chest as she waved the feathered quill in her hand in defeat. "What else could I say to you? I _saw_ the twine, Leliana. That white lie of mine potentially spared Mouse's life!""

"But kittens _love_ toying with balls of twine, or didn't you know?" She shrugged innocently, reaching her finally and sending a devious smirk over one shoulder as she passed the Antivan. "You have the wrong idea about me. I'm ruthless at times, yes, but never towards an innocent animal."

"A _kitten_ is she, you say?" The word seemed to jog the Commander's memory, his eyes darting between the women before finally resting on Josephine's round, hopeful stare. "Is she grey, by any chance? No bigger than a nug? Green eyes? A particular fondness for gravy?"

Her mouth dropped open in disbelief, and it took her a moment to release the trapped words from her throat. "You've seen her! Oh, Cullen, where is she? You _must_ tell me!"

Awkwardly, Cullen raised a gloved hand and rubbed at the back of his neck, an ironic chuckle escaping with his exhaled breath. "Ahm…. Well? She's… in the loft above my Command Post."

He visibly flinched and stepped back a fraction when she threw her arms up and sighed loudly, though he covered his mouth to disguise his silent laughter. _"Cullen,"_ Josephine groaned heatedly, "why did you not say anything to me about this?! I have been searching for well over _two weeks!"_ She nearly wagged her finger, mirroring her mother in her anger, but stopped herself to turn and stare out the expansive window. "How long have you known this?"

"Oh," Cullen mused, trading a glance with Leliana before responding in preparation for her reaction, "perhaps… two- _ish_ weeks, more or less?"

After a moment of stark silence, a chuckle hummed from Josephine's throat, surprising them both. Turning to them once more, she sighed and closed her eyes, sighing her frustrations away. "The Maker is testing me," she stated matter-of-factly. "This must be because I frequently miss Mother Giselle's morning prayers. Well, I suppose I should start attending services more often to avoid such tests in the future."

"Is this what you all get up to when I'm not around? Self-flagellation and dogmatic religious speculation?"

They turned as one, watching welcomingly as the Herald passed through the doorway, Seeker Pentaghast on her heels with her chin held high. Josephine was growing weary with all of these unannounced entrances, but nevertheless she was pleased to see their faces again.

"Welcome back, Inquisitor," Cullen greeted her, inclining his head courteously. "How was your journey? I trust it was uneventful."

Lavellan sighed dreamily, running a hand through her fair hair and snagging it on a tangle, which she dismissed without prodding. "Scenic, calm, and relaxing as always," she grinned with a wink as she passed Cullen. "Why, Commander, don't you believe me?"

Chuckling under his breath, he turned and opened the large, opulent doors of the War Room and pushed, holding the left one open for the ladies to pass through one by one. "Somehow I'm not quite convinced of your sincerity, but I know I speak for all when I say we're glad to see you still in one piece."

Josephine walked back a few steps and fell in next to the Seeker as they made their way companionably down the hall together. "Cassandra," she inclined her head in greeting, "it's lovely to see you again."

"Ambassador," Cassandra replied. She was a woman of few words, that one, but any acknowledgement was better than none at all, and bespoke of her good mood.

"You are looking surprisingly… Wait. Something is different." Josephine felt particularly drawn to her in that moment, curious as to what had activated that odd sensation within her. Something had changed about the Nevarran, but she wasn't quite sure where to place it. Laying a hand on her friend's forearm, she forced the woman to a stop, turning to face her head-on confrontationally.

Confused by this sudden scrutiny, Cassandra's angled brows drew together as she shook her head. "I polished my armour last night for our arrival," she offered speculatively, obviously hoping that this explanation would clear things up for the Ambassador. Stepping forward with her left foot, she turned for the War Room again, the Commander still holding the door in anticipation of their entry.

"No, not that," Josephine halted her yet again, choosing instead to block her path rather than grab her forcefully. Cassandra was much stronger, and she dared not risk a physical confrontation, knowing she stood a better chance of uncovering the truth through more diplomatic means. "You know what I am talking about! You – "

And then it struck her like a bolt of lightning. "Cassandra, you – you were smiling!"

The side of the Seeker's lip upturned in disgust as she rolled her eyes, her hand moving subtly to her hilt, though this move did not go unnoticed. "Don't be ridiculous," she dismissed her outright.

"Yes, you were! Do not try to deny it: You were smiling as you entered behind the Inquisitor! _That_ was what was so strange about you!"

 _"'Strange'_ – Ugh, _please_ , let us go to the War Room. I do not wish to discuss this nonsense."

As she turned and walked on, Josephine waited until she was on the precipice of entering the next room before sighing quietly to herself. At least she had her trusted spy from whom she could collect a detailed report. _He_ would have something for her, no doubt. "Very well, Cassandra… If you will not tell me, Varric will."

She spun with the reflexes of a skilled warrior, startling Cullen as he backed against the door to give her ample room. Her eyes wide with alarm, she caught herself before she could visibly stumble, attempting desperately to collect herself as she smoothed her cropped hair. "V-Varric? What – how did – I mean… _Stop_ this, Josephine."

Cassandra had lost the ability formulate a proper sentence, and Josephine's spine straightened instantly. She did not need to be trained in the art of body language, _nor_ the Great Game, to know that information was definitely being held back from her. That warm blush wasn't one born of anger…

Her loud gasp echoed off the high ceiling, bringing both sets of rounded eyes to her, along with those of the Spymaster and the Inquisitor, whom both looked on from within in stark misunderstanding as to what was taking them so long. "Oh… _My_ goodness," Josephine barely breathed, her brows high on her forehead, "we need to speak immediately!"

Racing over to Cullen, Josephine thrusted her writing board into the waiting Commander's arms, and he caught it clumsily, confusion washing over his features. "Please give my report to the Inquisitor, if you would, Commander. Cassandra and I are going to take a little walk."

"Ambassador," Cassandra dissented in annoyance as her wrist was grabbed and she was tugged away from the door frame, "we are not going anywhere until –"

"Come with me," she ignored her protestations completely, grinning with excitement, "I know of a quieter place!"

"Andraste preserve me," the warrior groaned with all the enthusiasm of an old Teyrn forced to attend an Imperial masquerade.

**~oOo~**

Dorian placed a hand on his lower back and used a touch of mana to warm his palm, applying heat to his sore spine as he walked through the entrance vestibule and gave a slight nod to the men whom turned their gazes in his direction. The whole mask, feathered hat, and silk breeches combination never quite did anything for him, and it certainly wasn't doing _them_ any favours, either, but at least they noticed him despite how rough he must look after days on the dusty road. And that was all that truly mattered, anyway.

It was a silent stroll down the length of the throne room, feelings of exhaustion from the journey causing him to drag his heels ever so slightly as he made his way to the stairs nearest the undercroft. He was looking forward to grabbing up a history book and sitting in his comfy chair by the window. Hopefully the author's long-winded droning would send him into a well-deserved coma and spare him the wait for supper. He ascended the cold stairwell slowly, the burning of the torches that lit his way not affecting the temperature of this place whatsoever. What was it about Skyhold that assured the chill rarely ever left his bones? Perhaps it was just an accepted reality in the south, but he wouldn't soon acclimate himself to these harsh surroundings. Admittedly, he _could_ layer his clothes to allow for more warmth and comfort, as Solas did, but… Dear Maker, it might be cold, but it wasn't _so_ terrible that he would make such a sacrifice.

He pulled open the door at the top of the stairs and breathed deeply, the sight of dusty old tomes and the nostalgic fragrances of ink, leather, and parchment greeting him upon entry. _Ah, the library,_ he thought wistfully, nodding in passing to the many familiar faces that surrounded him daily here. Researchers, scouts, arcanists, all of them meandered about as they searched for the book which held the answers to their most burning questions. They knew better than to engage him in conversation until he'd had at least an hour to himself, but as he passed out of the shadows and into the light of his chosen window seat between the bookshelves, he immediately understood why most of them had avoided eye contact with him – and it wasn't because he was the Magesterium reject from Tevinter, but rather for anticipation of his reaction to the man who now occupied his chair.

Closing the bit of garbage fiction in his lap that Dorian had yet to get around to discarding over the railing, Varric looked up from his seat and smiled charmingly. "Hey, Sparkler," he greeted him as though they hadn't just seen each other on a consistent basis for the past two weeks.

"Ah," Dorian frowned in consternation, wondering how best to remove the man and reclaim his spot. "You _do_ recall that you're supposed to be, oh, I don't know, _anywhere_ but here?"

Seeing that he was desperate to sit down, Varric shrugged and rose to his feet, bowing and gesturing like a personal butler for the altus to take his seat. "I need to ask you a favour," he whispered gruffly to Dorian as he finally rested his posterior on the warm cushions and slumped his shoulders.

" _Another_ one?" Taking the book from the dwarf's grasp, he drew his brows together as he read the title to himself, promptly rolling his eyes and tossing it aside, where it hit the edge of a side table before meeting the rug on the floor. "You already owe me quite a few. How many were we up to? It seems I've lost count."

"Uh," he looked away, scrunching his misshapen nose as he ventured a tentative guess, "five, I think?"

"Ha," Dorian glared suspiciously. "It's _seven_. That was a _test_ , you cheeky bastard. Now it's _eight_ for lying."

"Can't blame a guy for trying," Varric smiled, turning his back on him momentarily. "If it's too much trouble for a researcher like yourself, I'll take my business elsewhere."

Dorian hated to admit it, but that last vague statement was intriguing. "Alright, suit yourself, then. Explain or make yourself scarce."

Pleased with himself, the dwarf walked back over to the window seat and quietly handed the man a slip of paper out of view from a leather pocket on his belt. _So this is to be kept discreet_ , he noted in the back of his mind.

Curious, he arched a single dark brow and unfolded the torn bit of parchment, reading it over and over again in frank astonishment. "You must believe my magical capabilities nothing short of _miraculous,_ if _this_ is what you're after. Do you have any idea how priceless these are?"

"So they _do_ exist," Varric breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. "How many of the originals are left?"

"There are _only_ originals, and they're not exactly in circulation," Dorian informed him, mindful to keep his voice down in the echo-prone library. "Only a handful were ever crafted. I know the locations of maybe three in various collections of well-to-do friends of my family and Imperium museums. Others may still be lying in the Tevinter sands somewhere, but…"

"How easy would it be to get your hands on one?"

His expression changed from one of scepticism to outright incredulity. "Varric, that is _quite_ the tall order you're proposing. Stealing religious artefacts from my own homeland? As if I wasn't a pariah before all this Herald of Andraste business, now you want me to go about claiming priceless relics on behalf of the Inquisition?"

"Nobody said anything about 'stealing', Sparkler," the author leaned in conspiratorially. "I'm willing to pay good coin for this."

He gave the stout little man a hard stare. "What is it about the word 'priceless' that you're not grasping?"

"Look," he waved his hands for emphasis instead of raising his voice, "I don't know how to ask for something this big. I'd tell you what this is about, but I'm not even sure if this is gonna work… This is… more of a personal matter, Sparkler. You understand?" Grimacing, Varric turned and walked to the railing, leaning over and watching as the quiet elf below sat at his desk with an open book.

Dorian stood up with a sigh, walking the short distance to the rail and joining his friend there in a show of camaraderie. "If you need an assurance of trust, then you give me honesty, and I'll wipe out all your debts to me," he whispered, his head turned to study the man's profile. "The healings, the card games, all of it. But give me some credit. I know my people are somewhat undeserving of it, yet, but be a little more trusting of me."

Nodding, Varric closed his eyes and lowered his head, thinking for a moment in the quiet stillness. "Just trust me for now," he said finally, turning his eyes to the vint. "It's for a good cause."

Dorian let out a sigh of resignation, straightening as he once again read over the slip of paper before tucking it away in his pocket. "Fret not, ye poor soul, I shall look into this for you," he agreed, still wondering what reason Varric could have for obtaining this particular item. "I make no promises, but I might take on a second hand. Perhaps Solas has found a reference to it in those old tomes he's been researching," he commented dryly.

"Shouldn't take too much convincing to get him to help out," the dwarf shrugged, not moving from his position on the barrier. "He'll know what this is all about, anyway."

Spinning on his heel, Dorian made his way back to his friend's side, now annoyed beyond reason. "You told that _sad old elf_ before me? Solas," he called down to the scholarly apostate, who up until this point had minded his own business, "how dare you know something I don't?"

Glancing upward, the elven mage slowly took on a mischievous grin and leaned back in his upholstered chair, fingers laced behind his shining cranium. "Oh, Dorian, too few times have you presented me with the opportunity of replying with such gratification. So many things come to mind! I wonder which retort would be the most scathing."

"That's it, Varric. Your count starts again," Dorian waved a hand authoritatively, marching back to his chair by the window and plunking himself down roughly. "You're back to owing me one – no, _two._ "

Smiling, Varric winked and rubbed his hands together before crossing them over his partly-bare chest and strolling over to the winding stairwell. "Wouldn't have it any other way," he said dreamily as he disappeared into the keep once more.

**~oOo~**

Cassandra leaned on the Inquisitor's balcony, hugging her elbows to her as she stared out at the landscape below, letting the wind lick past her face and redden her cheeks with its wintery chill. It was a quiet moment, at long last. Such minutes to herself felt like stolen opportunities these days, and they were precious to her, allowing her to reflect upon the chaos that was everyday life.

Josephine had returned to her duties ages ago, leaving the Seeker alone with her many worrisome thoughts after the conversation had dwindled and died away. She was right about what she had said, though it was not easy to digest, and had left a heavy pit in her stomach. Had the Ambassador been more disagreeable it might have been a weight off her shoulders, but yet again her skills at diplomacy had been utilised to gently state her point of view, however severe the blow had been in all actuality.

Reflecting upon the initial reaction to her news of finding what could be timidly classified as love, Cassandra had believed the woman elated for her newfound happiness. And perhaps that had been the case, though Cassandra had never actually revealed with whom her affections were placed, being as vague as possible with the identity and even physical description of the man. That would have been a dead giveaway, had she chosen to go into specifics, and she was barely beginning to admit her own feelings on the matter without soliciting the opinions of others… But an opinion was offered nonetheless.

_Lady Cassandra, I am pleased for you, but… have you forgotten about your candidacy for the Sunburst Throne?_

The words had struck her dumb momentarily. In truth she _had_ forgotten, though not entirely. The open position left empty after the events at the Temple of Sacred Ashes was something that she had pushed to the back of her mind, grounding herself in the present conflict instead of dwelling on the future. If they did not succeed against Corypheus, there would be no future for which to plan, and therefore she paid the politics of the Chantry no mind unless they directly affected the Inquisition.

Honestly, she didn't even desire the position, but there was no denying that she had already laid out some time ago to the Inquisitor what her agenda would entail, and Lavellan had been intrigued by her ideas for transparency, honesty, and reform. She'd made a strong case for her own nomination, and that might have damned her, ironically enough, to succeeding Justinia V as the next Divine.

And becoming Divine was not a position that lent itself to pursuing the longings of the heart…

"Enjoying the view?"

Cassandra turned suddenly, her hands firmly on the railing as she found herself face-to-face with the Herald. "I-Inquisitor," she stammered, her heart in her throat. Swallowing hard, she inclined her head before shifting her eyes left and right, suspecting that if the elven mage had managed to get the jump on her, others might also be nearby… But they were alone, at least. "I apologise for being in your – "

"It's alright, Cassandra," Lavellan cut her off softly, not quite controlling the smirk at the corner of her lips. "Josephine warned me that you might still be here after your talk, but I'm sorry I surprised you like that. We Dalish move fairly silently – perhaps that's how we earned the reputation of being so 'sneaky'. If I'm totally truthful, I still find it a bit entertaining to sneak up behind _shemlen_ and make them leap out of their skins. Childish, I know," she grinned to herself over some mysterious memory she did not intend to share.

Cassandra nodded awkwardly and turned away, focusing instead on the powdered landscape laid out before her. Lavellan was not an elf of few words, and that made it difficult to walk away from a conversation with her. If the warrior had a silver for every time the Inquisitor approached her near the armoury to initiate small talk, she would have enough to buy Corypheus off and end the war right now. Of course, she didn't fail in that regard at all.

"What's on your mind? Is there something I can help with?" She asked plainly, joining her at the balcony railing to share in the view, her hands joined behind her back.

Her angular brows drew together in consideration. Certainly the Herald was a friend, but as a loose-lipped companion, Cassandra hesitated to trust her with anything directly pertaining to her strange relationship with the merchant prince.

Still, there was one thing she could ask that would not draw suspicion, and she employed that strategy instead. "Inquisitor," she started, her voice detached as her eyes focused on the mountains in the distance, "am I still being considered as a strong candidate for the next Divine?"

The elven woman's fair brows shot up, barely visible beneath the deep greens of the blood writing on her forehead. "Well," she began, shifting her weight from one hip to the other and leaning on the stone rail for support, "I haven't eliminated you, if that's what you want to know. It's an important decision to make, especially since I'm not even an Andrastian." She chuckled to herself for a moment, trading a wry glance with her trusted companion. "Funny how I can be the Herald of a belief system I don't subscribe to. My sister would have found that particularly hilarious, actually."

The Seeker was confident enough in her faith not to feel the need to defend it, instead focusing on her words. _I haven't eliminated you…_ So there was still a chance she could be nominated and put forward by Lavellan to lead the Chantry. It was simultaneously flattering and heartbreaking to consider that, possibly a year from now, she could be sitting on the Sunburst Throne at the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux, donning those illustrious red and white robes and enacting sweeping decrees on behalf of the Maker…

 _Alone_ …

"Would you like me to put in a good word to the Grand Clerics for you?" Lavellan pried innocently, trying to guess the woman's reason for asking after her decision.

What could she possibly say in response? She wanted desperately to urge the mage to drop all considerations for her viability, to be left to reform the Seekers of Truth instead, to dodge being forced to wear that itchy, ridiculous hat for the rest of her blessed years… And to avoid being married to the Chantry, given all her position would demand, rather than being free to love another…

The Inquisitor was waiting for an answer patiently, and Cassandra closed her weary eyes, lowering her head to her clasped hands as though in mid-prayer. "I…" Words escaped her. Her throat dried up, her heart slowly tearing in two as the weight of her responsibilities threatened to rip Varric from her only-recently opened arms.

Biting her lip, she forced the words past her tongue. "I would not want to influence your choice in any way. You must do what you believe is best for all of us, whether you choose Madame Vivienne, Leliana… or myself."

After a moment of silence, the only sound that of the whistling wind through the snowy peaks, Lavellan let out a heavy sigh, straightening herself and turning back toward her room. "Nobody ever makes these dilemmas easy for me, do they?" she mumbled jokingly, shuffling into her stately quarters.

It was time she took her leave. Nodding to the elf making her way to her desk in the corner, Cassandra held the pommel of her sword for support as she made her way down the flight of wooden stairs, suddenly anxious to take out her frustrations on one of the dummies in the courtyard.

**~oOo~**

He looked up from his record books in time to see the Seeker silently passing into the crowd of diplomats, gentlewomen, and nobility, an infectious smile involuntarily spreading over his face. Just the sight of her now was enough to send his heart galloping away, and he happily set his quill down to sneak into the vestibule before she noticed his presence in the hall. Luckily, she seemed to be in her own world at the moment, and it was easy enough to avoid being caught. Seconds ticked by, and Varric heard her boot steps on the approach, pressing himself tightly against the wall and preparing for his ambush. Hell, was she ever going to be surprised by this.

She passed through the first doorway, walking quickly toward the outer door, but he used her forward momentum to swing her off to the side, spinning her and bringing the Seeker into a low dip. Cassandra's eyes were alight with fury for the fraction of a second before she registered his face above her own, mere centimetres apart.

 _"Varric,"_ she whispered hoarsely, her features greatly alarmed as she froze in his grasp. "What are you _doing?"_

"Sweeping you off your feet," he rasped out his reply, smirking flirtatiously before planting a deep kiss on her mouth. It felt good to finally be able to do that again, and she responded in kind, though there was a different quality to this kiss compared to the one they had shared in the Emerald Graves, almost as if she was holding herself back. "Isn't that what you asked me to do?" He teased her affectionately as their lips parted.

"But we could be _seen,"_ she protested nervously, her eyes darting to the doorway only a few feet from where they embraced. "Varric – "

"I thought you didn't want this to be a secret," he challenged her playfully. As he smiled at her adoringly, though, her expression of sorrow slowly began to penetrate the romantic haze around his vision, and he reluctantly released his hold, allowing for her to get back on her feet.

Clearing his throat gruffly, he fought the flush of awkwardness that threatened to overcome him. "Hey, I thought that was a pretty bold move," he confessed with an apologetic shrug. "Maybe I was wrong. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."

Brushing herself off, the Seeker readjusted her obsidian armour, effectively avoiding his gaze of confusion. "It's fine," she shook her head, obviously lost in thought. Her demeanour a moment ago in the hall suddenly made more sense. Something was troubling her deeply. "I just need to go thrash my dummy for a while."

Trying to lighten her mood, he let out the ghost of a laugh. "Are we thinking of pet names already?"

Thoroughly expecting a reluctant smirk at the very least, he was surprised when she scoffed deep in her throat in the manner only a Nevarran could pull off. "Varric, this is serious," she snapped at him, crossing her arms and taking a quick step toward the door in an attempted escape.

"Whoa, slow down, Seeker," he stopped her, grabbing her forearm and preventing her sudden departure. His eyes went wide when she wrenched her arm free, and he stepped back a pace, his hands raised in the air. It had been ages since he'd had need to make that panicked gesture of surrender. He had thought they'd moved past all of this, but apparently not. "What the hell is going on? Did I do something to piss you off?"

Cassandra's eyes slowly softened at that, seeing his honest reaction of worry for her state of mind. She had meant to take her energy out in her training area, but he had gotten in the way, and she had unintentionally lashed out at him instead. Her expression communicated plainly that he was not the intended target of her frustrations, but she couldn't seem to find the words to say it aloud. "I…" she uttered pitifully, shaking her head over and over in outward denial.

"You what?" He prompted her cautiously, reaching out a hand tentatively to touch her arm and rub it encouragingly. "Did something happen in the war room?"

"No," she sighed, closing her eyes and forcing herself to breathe the stifling air within the stone walls. "No, nothing like that. I just… _can't."_

Cassandra was a mess. She wasn't making any sense, her mind wild with thoughts dancing behind her sad brown eyes. Then her voice finally hit him like a tunnel caving in overhead. "What do you mean you can't? You mean… you and me?"

Shaking her head yet again, the Seeker took a deep breath and sighed, her eyes pleading for understanding. "I don't know."

Varric felt the shock reverberate through his very bones. _I don't know._ Her words echoed in his ears, devoid of all reason. "Wait a minute, can't we talk about this?" He pleaded in turn, searching her face for tells to her true state of mind.

"What is left to talk about?" She bit dangerously, catching herself only after the words escaped her lips. The same lips he had kissed passionately only seconds ago.

"Are you _shitting me?!"_ He spat incredulously, fighting to keep his voice down for her sake. But it was no use. She was driving him crazy. "First you force me to confess how I feel about you, and you basically hand me _detailed instructions_ on how to court you! _Then,_ you make me prove I'm serious about this, and when I _kiss_ you, you say we can't explore our feelings! Yet that _exact same night,_ you cried in my arms and we talked about love, and I held you while you slept!" He was becoming incensed with the recounting, practically laughing at the absurdity of his situation. "And right when I go and do what you _said_ you wanted from me, you pull away _again_ and start saying things like _'I can't'_ and _'I don't know'_ – and I'm not even given a reason _why?!_ Damn it, Seeker, you're incredible, you know that?!"

Her eyes had gone round during his hushed tirade, but he didn't regret a damned word of it. The Void take her, she was giving him nothing but mixed signals for weeks now, and if he was going to pursue this further, he needed to know where he stood. "You're done being the interrogator," he stepped toward her, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Now it's _my_ turn to demand answers. You've been stringing me along, and I don't even know which way is up anymore. I want to know what's got you bent out of shape. You _owe_ me, Seeker. Come on, out with it!"

Scoffing at his attitude, she stepped away defiantly, feeling too exposed at standing so close to the doorway. As she moved to the far wall near a table and chair, Varric took a step back himself, his lip upturning in frustration. _"Gah,_ this is impossible," he shouted, unable to control the tenor of his disbelief any longer as he threw his hands up in defeat.

"Why do you _care_ so much?!" She shouted back, clenching her fists in anger and seemingly readying herself to charge.

_"Because, damn it, I lo – "_

He'd almost said it. Cutting his own voice off before the point of no return, his eyes widened in surprise at his own near-confession. Rubbing a cautious hand over his mouth, Varric shot her an apprehensive glance, noting her paralysed posture. Had he shocked her into silence, or was it something else?

Then he noticed it. The entire main hall was hushed, the echo of conversation evaporating into thin air. He turned suddenly, finding himself exposed and dozens of eyes locked on him alone. Turning around, he looked outside to discover a few chantry sisters and a group of templars down in the courtyard, huddled into their respective groups as they watched from below.

"Everyone's looking," he hurriedly mumbled to Cassandra from the corner of his lips.

"Shit," she swore quietly, indecision painted over her face. "What the hell should we do?"

Thinking quickly, Varric turned to her, his arms at his sides in an irritated stance. If they were looking for a show, they'd get one. "Throw the chair at me."

Stunned, she glanced down and around her feet. "What chair?"

"The one _behind_ you," he whispered roughly. _"Go,_ come on!" Shouting for all to hear, he sneered, "Well, I don't care anymore; I'm getting tired of your crap!"

Still flustered, Cassandra finally laid eyes on the chair behind her, spinning back round to face him as her hand rested on the top rail. _"This_ chair?"

Exasperated, Varric lost patience with her and rolled his eyes rudely. "Andraste's fuckin' sake, Seeker, do you see _another_ _ch – "_

He ducked with his hands raised over his head as he caught sight out of the corner of his eye of said wooden chair barrelling straight at his face. Surprised that she'd thrown it with such force, he stood up after it crash-landed at the opposite end, clenching his fists only partly for dramatic effect. _"What the hell was that for?!"_

Storming up to Varric within sight of their onlookers, Cassandra stopped in front of him and glared hard. "Since you claim to be so _tired,"_ she stated harshly, towering over him as her voice echoed through the stone hall, "perhaps you need to take a _seat!"_

That got a chuckle from their impromptu audience. The slight laughter rolled through the hall, and their momentary approval gave Cassandra the opportunity to leave on a high note. Turning stiffly, she said nothing before making her way down the stone stairway leading to the courtyard, and he watched her as she descended, not once looking back as she shoved through the groups at the bottom landing.

Turning away, he marched back into the hall and stormed over to the fireside, placing his fists on the table as he stared down at his records. He could feel judging eyes on him, and ignored them until the sensation slowly died away, leaving only feelings of indignation and outright frustration to brim up to the surface. His fists clenched, knuckles going pale white as his arms shook, the desire to hit something an unshakable urge. _Why_ can't _she?_ He thought to himself angrily, running a shaking hand over his hair to smooth it down.  _Just because she's a warrior doesn't mean she has to fight everything!_

Out of the sheer compulsion to express that thought, he growled loudly and kicked his own chair with all his strength, and it broke as if it was made of tissue paper, skidding to the right with a screech. It was then that he noticed someone step out of the way. Varric glanced up at the tutting from that direction, not at all surprised to see Solas and Dorian standing in the doorway, their arms crossed as they studied him, one face stern with disapproval while the other was more than slightly amused.

"Show's over," Varric grumbled, his voice as though he had just gargled nails.

After a long pause, the two exchanged sceptical glances with one another. "A great relief, that," Solas retorted sarcastically. "Perish the thought that the Inquisition's coffers might have been drained entirely for replacement furnishings." With nothing more to add, the elf turned and retreated back into his study, leaving Dorian to curl the end of his moustache to match his upturned lip.

"Don't you have something better to do, Sparkler?" Varric asked heatedly, bitterness dripping from his tone.

Dorian shrugged his exposed shoulder and bent to retrieve the chair, sidling up to the dwarf and dropping it beside the fire for kindling. "I always do. Washing my hair comes to mind first and foremost, but that can wait. Let's go down to the tavern for a drink. We'll talk there."

He was about to protest, but after all that expended adrenaline, a drink was exactly what he needed to calm down. Varric nodded and made his way back around the desk, walking straight outside as Dorian followed on his heels.

Late afternoon was in full swing with soldiers training in the courtyard, a brother reciting the Chant of Light off in the corner to those that would stop to listen, and cooks and servants bustling about in preparation for supper. He descended the stairs, his eyes catching sight of the sparring area where Blackwall was currently locking swords with a younger recruit under the supervision of the Commander, others looking on as they waited their turn to practice against the chevalier. Cullen shot them an odd look as they passed, and Varric heard the unmistakable sound of a dummy being hacked to death near the armoury, its assailant grunting with every hack and strike.

When Dorian opened the door to the Herald's Rest and waited for him to go through, Varric sighed heavily, the weight of it all beginning to bear down on him. His fingers twitched at his sides as he tried to convince himself to just go over there and talk to her, anxious to find out what had disturbed Cassandra enough to try pushing him away.

"Let it go for now," Dorian gently reassured him, placing a hand on his shoulder and waiting patiently for him to enter the taproom. "Talk it over with me, first. You don't want to approach her with that attitude unless you're looking to refurbish your quarters."

He walked inside in a daze, his eyes readjusting to the dimness of the tavern. The ground floor was packed so full in anticipation of the evening meal that there wasn't a table available. From somewhere behind him, Dorian raised his hand and snapped three times to get Cabot's attention, two fingers upstretched as he ordered a round. Tiny and the Chargers sat at the back of the room past the stairs, drinking and chatting happily amongst themselves. Pilgrims conversed with one another as they always did, and off-duty soldiers sat quietly amongst themselves listening to Maryden's plucked strings, their stomachs rumbling within their guts.

Though Varric processed all of this, he hardly paid attention. All he could think about was the look on her face and how broken-hearted she had been. Her unpredicted reaction plagued his mind, drowning out the general white noise of drinking and levity around him. She wanted this just as much as he did, but something was stopping the Seeker from committing to at least giving it a shot.

 _Give me something_ _real_ _– something I can trust so that I might place my faith in you again._

As her past sentiment struck him suddenly, he visibly stumbled back a pace, coming to himself in the present moment. "She needs evidence," Varric mumbled, his brows coming together as he looked up, meeting Dorian's questioning eyes.

"'She'? Evidence of what?" The mage wondered, confusion written on his face as he held out a mug for Varric to take. "What are you on about?"

The ground shook to his right, and they looked over to find none other than Sera standing in the middle of the room, having jumped the banister to descend floors quicker. "'Ey, Varric. Saw yer fight thingy a bit ago. Did she nick ya?"

Varric shook his head slowly. "No. No, I ducked just in time." Frowning, he turned to the archer and tried to recall whether or not he'd seen her amongst the crowd of onlookers. "Where were you?"

She grinned at that. "Sittin' on the roof jus' shoutin' tips at Cullen's men on where Blackwall's weak spots are. I _told_ them, but nobody'd hit 'im in the bollocks! Easiest way to take a man down, I find."

"The roof?" He asked, mildly confused. "You mean the battlements?"

"Nah, the roofy bit outside my window, like," Sera clarified, taking the mug from Dorian's hands. "I sit out there to think about stuff, sometimes. Sometimes Quizzy comes, too, an' we eat cookies an' shit. I mean, no, we don't _shit_ out there, or anythin', an' we don't sit there _eatin'_ shit, either…"

She went on and on, but Varric wasn't paying any attention, too preoccupied with another woman talking inside his head. _I desire a man who declares his adoration for me from the rooftops. Sweeps me off my feet. Gives me flowers. Reads poetry to me by candlelight… Someone willing to court me openly_.

"So you don't actually eat shit? I'm confused. Here I thought you were so full of it that it came out your ears instead of your ass."

"Oh, _ha ha,_ Tevinter! Laugh it up now, but you jus' wait till I – "

"Buttercup," the dwarf interrupted suddenly, stepping forward and surprising his two drinking companions with his urgency. "I need to borrow your window."

His dark brows shooting up on his forehead, Dorian turned a hard gaze on his friend. "Varric, what are you planning to do? Tell me so I can talk you out of it properly."

Turning to the growingly concerned man, Varric leaned in and rasped his next words carefully. "You're a gambling man, Sparkler, so tell me: What have I got to lose?"

"Plenty!"

Before the dwarf could register that an answer had been given, he raced to the stairs and placed one boot before the other on the steps, his heart pounding enough to almost see his chest hair move to the intense beat of it.

"Don't touch anythin' in there. An' careful, the handle's all jiggly!" Scoffing loudly, Sera slammed her mug into Dorian's ribs for him to take, coming after him hurriedly. "Wait, lemme do it! You'll jus' break it off with yer stupid sausage fingers!"

As he rounded the first floor in determination, Sera passing him to jigger the window open herself, a new voice from above caught his attention. "Varric," Cole called softly from his perch on the top floor.

"Not right now, Kid," he replied brusquely, hell-bent on seeing this through.

"But it's really important," the spirit boy protested in a near panic.

Varric stopped and looked up, spotting Cole sitting with his feet dangling over the rails in near-darkness, easily blending in with his surroundings like a ghost. "Can it wait five minutes? Just five minutes, that's all I need, Kid. I promise."

Nervously, he watched the dwarf, their eyes locked as Varric pleaded silently for him to let him finish this business once and for all. "Uh… o-okay," he stammered, somewhat troubled by something of which only he was aware. "She's… waiting for you in the courtyard."

Setting his jaw, Varric turned his eyes to the door of Sera's room, prepared to prove his worth in her eyes. "I know," he answered quietly, stepping forward as though walking a plank.

From below, the Iron Bull strutted over to join his recently abandoned bedfellow. "Hey, Dorian," he nodded, following the vint's woeful gaze upward. "What's he doing?"

Sighing loudly, Dorian downed the remaining contents of his mug, offering the other to Bull. "Hopefully not leaping to his death, all things considered… Come," he invited the qunari, leaving his empty mug on the end of a table full of Andrastian pilgrims, "we'll have a better view of it outside."

**~oOo~**

She chopped at the dummy until nothing was left but a pile of firewood, sweat dripping from her brow as she kicked the last of the standing wood over. Satisfied, she straightened and sheathed her weapon, noting the fire in her muscles as she relaxed them finally. Truly, nothing was left. He'd never understand, never hold her once more as she slept, never be willing to fight for her... Not after she had seemingly rejected him all over again. Cassandra had called him a coward so many times before, but her own cowardice now dwarfed his own, so to speak. Varric had done what she had asked, acting spontaneously and willing to do so in such an open area. And what had she done? She'd instinctively tried to hide it in the same manner he had once done, unable to tell him that there was a chance she could be the Divine.

Cassandra was convinced that merely the thought of that ever happening would cause him to back away from her entirely, and although that was the smart thing to do, it was not what her heart cried out for. Perhaps it had been unwise to keep this from the Inquisitor. If Lavellan knew, she might be inclined to drop her from the list of nominees… But to tell her was to tell the entire keep, if not half the country, and she did not want news spreading – especially if that news getting out jeopardised Varric's feelings. No, if their relationship, however benign at the moment, was to be exposed, it had to be his choice. She would not force him to love her under pressure from their friends.

"I was going to ask if you could relieve Blackwall," Cullen's wry voice came from behind her left shoulder, "but judging by the state of your target, I believe I'll spare my men your wrath, this evening."

Her eyes had been watering, but she disguised this by wiping her face with the towel over her shoulders and pretending to catch her breath. Hopefully he would assume it was only sweat that stained her cheeks. "I needed the practice, Commander," Cassandra replied, "but I will accompany you if the invitation is still open."

"Please do," Cullen gestured toward the pen gallantly, his hand on the pommel of his sword as he walked with her to the edge of the sparring grounds. Within the perimeter, a grubby Blackwall fought a hesitant recruit with nothing but his shield, blocking every blow and demonstrating how a man could still go on the offence if disarmed. "Push back with your shoulder, Jim!" Cullen cupped his hands around his mouth so his voice carried to all the men. "Duck when he thrusts, then try to knock him off his feet when his balance is offset!"

"Can I have your attention please!"

Thoroughly surprised, Cullen turned before Cassandra had a chance to herself, his brows shooting up. "Varric?" He blurted, "What are you doing up there?"

Varric Tethras stood on the shingled roof just outside the windows of Sera's bedroom, his tailcoats catching the breeze as he kept his precarious balance. "I'm _talking_ , Curly, try to keep up," the dwarf replied with a devilish smirk. Glancing to the woman next to the Commander, he winked, taking a deep breath as he steadied himself. "From the rooftops, right, Seeker?"

 _"Varric!"_ She hadn't expected him to take her quite so literally. Her heart thundered beneath her chest plate, not knowing whether to stop him or keep listening, but since she was paralysed with shock, it appeared as though she was doing the latter.

In a moment, Blackwall was at the edge of the circle, staring up at his friend with a look on his face that Cassandra read as astonishment, as well. "Unbe-fucking-lievable," the man marvelled to himself. There was no confusion mirroring Cullen's in his expression, and realisation struck her then like a blow to the chest: Blackwall knew damn well what was happening. Dorian and Iron Bull also made their way around the tavern walls and stood off to the side, the mage doing his best not to bite his fingernails. Pins and needles washed over her skin as Cassandra wondered just what the hell he was going to say, and she looked up again to meet Varric's waiting gaze.

"I bet you're all confused, right about now," he shouted, nervousness not freezing him up as much as it probably should have, "and for the longest time, I'll admit, so was I… But a great woman once said to me, 'I see what must be done and I do it,' and well… to be honest with you, this is something that has to be done if she's ever going to see _me_ as a great man."

Clearing his throat, he continued for his waiting crowd of onlookers, "I won't bore you with any tired clichés or grand metaphors – that's what my books are for." A small chuckle reverberated around her. "But I _will_ tell you that she's worth embarrassing myself in front of all you good people, even if she tans my hide after this."

His head inclined downward to look at Cassandra directly, and her heart felt like it would burst from her chest. "Varric," she breathed, the wind robbed from her lungs. He was actually going to tell everyone. This was her out for the position of Head of the Chantry, and their opportunity to live in an honest light.

 _"Get on with it,"_ some random soul shouted from the back of the courtyard, bringing his attention back.

"Okay, you're all here for one thing," the dwarf nodded, his hand gripping the window ledge for balance as he took a deep breath and prepared himself. "I'd like to declare… that I'm in love with someone. And I have every intention of courting her out in the open, in front of all of you, if I have her approval. Hell, I don't even know if I have her heart, but here goes nothing."

Cassandra's eyes began to water again, and she patted them dry with her towel quickly, barely able to tear her eyes away for a second. _Please,_ her heart begged Andraste, _give him the courage of his convictions. Please, say my name…_

"And her name," Varric spoke as if answering her prayer, glancing down at her with an anxious smile one last time before raising his eyes to the people scattered all around, "is – "

His voice cut off in his throat abruptly, rounded eyes fixed on something far away. Turning her head, Cassandra could see nothing of note behind her and, brimming with panic, turned back to find the colour draining from his face, jaw slack and shoulders tensed with shock.

"…Bianca."

The anti-climactic moment caused the crowd to unanimously roll their eyes and groan, everyone turning away for having been played the fool. "Oh, shit," Blackwall's deep voice trembled, still staring up at a statuesque Varric. Without warning, Bull nudged the warrior's broad shoulder and forced a free hand open, grunting with dissatisfaction as the mercenary placed two sovereigns in his gloved palms and walked away.

 _"Pfft_. Figures," Cullen waved a hand, shaking his head with a smirk. "Even I could have told you he was joined at the hip with his crossbow." Making an about face, he once again proceeded with the training.

Stunned, Cassandra reeled, the name he'd spoken leaving her lightheaded and weak. Not her name. Not even close. Why had he backed out and said the name of his damned  _crossbow_? He would never be anything but a coward.

Inwardly grieving and somehow feeling publicly humiliated by all this, Cassandra didn't hear Cullen ask her if she was alright. Instead, she turned to her right and quickly raced to the doors of the armoury, the desire to get away stronger than anything she had previously felt.

" _Seeker_ ," he called to her, jumping down from the roof and stumbling as he hurt his ankle on the way down. "Seeker, _wait!"_

"You don't have to explain, Varric," she replied, storming away as she tried to hide her humiliated tears.

 _"Cassandra,"_ he rasped, his voice tearing within his throat as he grasped her arm and spun her around. "You've gotta believe me, it was a mistake…"

Glaring at him angrily, she disguised her anguish with disgust. "Believe _me,"_ she replied, ripping her arm from his grasp, "I _know_ it was a mistake." With that, she passed into the armoury and slammed the door behind her.

All was quiet within. The blacksmiths had left the fires of their forges for the promise of supper, and the only sound she could hear was that of her own choking sobs. Tearing her way through the ground floor, she walked quickly up the stairs, ripping her scabbard and sword from her belt before slamming her weapon on the table. She wiped at her eyes, shaking her head free of the hurt, but the ache in her chest was growing painful with every single, solitary breath. Walking the few steps to her window, she looked out at the scene of the disturbance below. It was as if nothing had occurred for anyone else, their days hardly interrupted by what should have been her moment of freedom, of truth, of romantic declaration. Sniffing loudly, the Seeker drew her brows together and pursed her lips, determined to hold the tears at bay. He was not worthy of them, anyway.

Speaking of whom, she watched as Varric slowly limped back toward the keep, his gaze raised to the stone landing between flights leading up to the main hall. As he approached it, she followed his eyes and found, to her total disbelief, a hooded figure simply standing there, waiting for him to approach her. Eventually, he stopped in front of the fellow dwarf, but she could not read their lips as they moved in greeting.

A dwarven woman that Cassandra had never laid eyes on before…

Her knees going weak, the Seeker slid against the stone wall until she met the floor, her knees pulled close to her face as she buried her head within her arms. " _Shit_ ," she swore helplessly, tearing her gauntlets off and throwing them under the table, the revelation of Varric's utterance of the wrong name and this new figure colliding within her mind. "It can't be!"

But it was her. For it to all make sense, it had to be.

 _Bianca_.


	16. The Tender Burns of Old Flames

The door slammed with cold finality in his face, the resentment behind her cutting words paralysing him in place with uncertainty. Slowly, Varric's eyes panned down the length of the wood to the brass handle, and he raised his gloved hand to hover over it indecisively, touching it lightly as he fought to convince himself to go in after her.

He lowered his forehead to the wood panel and closed his eyes, ordering his heart to slow down or risk killing him outright. Truly, the let-down was such that it seemed like a real possibility at this point, but he waited for the wind to move through his lungs, his blood to slow in his veins, the strength to return to his legs before opening his eyes again. No, better to leave her alone to cool off before trying again.

Well, that was the stupidest damned thing he'd ever done.

Smoothing his hair down, he turned around and snuck a cursory glance about the courtyard. Life had resumed all around him, the only hint that something had changed being the occasional look he received from those that passed him, who laughed slightly under their breath at his perceived jest. It had all come off as some practical joke, an elaborate prank that he'd played on them all. Well, if they were none the wiser, he wasn't inclined to enlighten them on his bleak failure.

The glimmer of pristine armour caught his eye, and he turned his head in time to watch Blackwall make his way to the edge of the sparring grounds, the warrior's deep brown eyes locking on his own sympathetically. "Alright…?" He nodded in their usual way. There was a note of concern in the angle at which his head tilted, his thick brows turning up sadly.

Hero knew what had gone wrong, and Varric could feel his compassion for the situation he had ultimately created. This day was just going from bad to worse. Sighing, Varric nodded solemnly and stepped cautiously toward the stone keep, careful not to wrench his ankle any further. He would have to get that looked at, sooner rather than later. "Yeah, alright," he replied with a slight grumble, averting his eyes as he skulked away with his tail between his legs. It wasn't alright, but what else could he say? He should have listened to Sparkler and had that damned drink, first. Now, more than ever, he needed one.

Gradually, he plodded away from the scene, Dorian's earlier advice echoing in his head. _Let it go for now._ Yeah, for now. He'd have to face the music eventually, but unfortunately there were more pressing matters that called his attention elsewhere.

As he took the first step up the stone walkway, his eyes rose to meet her own, bathed in shadow from her hood to hide her distinguishing features from view. There was no mistaking her for another, though. He'd both seen and touched those lips with his own on more than one passionate occasion, so familiar with them by now that he'd know them with his eyes closed in full darkness… And Maker knew he had years of experience with her in that area, too.

"Well if it isn't Bianca Davri," his voice cut through the tension gravely. Even at the mere utterance of her name on his tongue, despite her untimely arrival, his lips curved in a soft smile as his stomach fluttered with anticipation. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

"In the flesh," she smirked back invitingly. The beguiling woman had her own way of welcoming temptation just by the subtle sway of her shoulders, shifting her weight and placing a small hand on a curvaceous hip. "Happy to see me?"

Happy wasn't quite the word he would have used, but then again, he couldn't deny that a small part of him always lost sight of what was important in her presence. "Among other things," he muttered, fighting those old feelings reluctantly. Her family had made damn sure that she wasn't his, and never would be. He'd gotten used to the fact that she'd been married off specifically to keep them apart, and had attempted for the longest time to move on with his life… But no matter how hard he tried or how close he got to accomplishing that, Bianca somehow managed to resurface just when things were starting to resemble normal life for him. And now, with her unannounced appearance, those dead and wounded feelings clawed their way to the surface once more, stirring the old, broken pot.

"So, decided not to take his name, huh?"

She huffed out an incredulous laugh at that. "And be known as _Mrs. Bogdan Vasca?_ You've gotta be kidding me. Doesn't roll off the tongue as easily, does it?"

"How is whatshisname, anyway?" He knew the bastard's name, alright, but he'd outright refused to ever speak it aloud, lest it give him the satisfaction of being acknowledged between them.

One of her brows arched at that. His little game of avoiding her husband's name was not new to her in the slightest, and he would have stopped mocking him in her presence if she didn't bask in his obvious bitterness so much. "You know you don't actually care, Varric. You only want to know whether he knows I'm here."

That _was_ a growing concern of his, and his eyes darted about shiftily. The Inquisition was pretty decent about keeping the more nefarious members of the guild outside the walls, but he knew better than to assume spies weren't watching his every move, whether they were Nightingale's or not. "And?"

His paranoia never ceased to entertain her, and admittedly, he disliked how careless she could sometimes be about their continued contact. It was downright life-threatening to be seen speaking to one another, let alone be in the same country at any given time. "If he knew about this, do you _really_ think you'd still be above ground? And I'm not talking about the Deep Roads."

 _Yep_. She was still as trivial about the dangers as ever. There'd be hell to pay for this little visit.

Craning her delicate neck, Bianca glanced down at the courtyard for a moment before looking back at him humorously, nodding her head in the direction of the tavern. "That was just adorable, by the way, but if you keep pulling stunts like that, my father's bound to send the assassins, again."

Oddly enough, their abrupt encounter and ensuing conversation had all but wiped the preceding events from his memory, and he mentally kicked himself that he was still so susceptible to her charms after all this time… and for proceeding to conceal for whom that chaotic display was actually meant. "Shit. Yeah." Thinking quickly, he passed his grand failure off exactly as she had interpreted it, as though she had been the intended target all along. "Guess I'll just deal with them like I dealt with all the others, right?"

"Trust me, you have no idea how much it pisses dad off when you thwart his hired goons with a crossbow named after me. I try not to be in the same city when he finds out you're still alive." The smile she graced him with as she spoke was dazzling. How he had missed her face…

Grimacing at his ludicrously weak resistance to her charisma, Varric couldn't believe he was subconsciously picking right up where he and Bianca had left off, as if circumstances hadn't changed for him whatsoever. He threw caution to the wind and placed a gloved hand on the back of his neck, rubbing at it roughly as he feigned awkwardness in order to steal a glance back toward the armoury. Cassandra wasn't anywhere to be seen, though – or not that he could tell, anyway. There was a chance he could smuggle his old flame out of Skyhold before the Seeker suspected anything, and he could make up some poor excuse for his fuck-up later...

Clearing his throat, Varric turned back to face her and threw her an uncomfortable smile. "I don't mean to be rude or anything, Bianca, but… Why the sudden appearance? I'm just saying, there has to be a damn good reason behind you being here, of all places. Otherwise, you wouldn't risk standing next to me in broad daylight."

"Ah, I get it. 'In all the fortresses in all the mountains in all of Thedas, you had to walk into mine.' Is that what this is?" She brushed aside her endearing teasing, her eyes piercing his with a serious gaze. "My letter, Varric. You got it, didn't you? Damn it, you're terrible about replying to me, you know that?" She sighed out her exasperation before revealing, "I found the source of our little 'problem', but I need a hand shutting down their operation. Think your friend can do me a solid?"

This wasn't turning out to be something he could easily sweep under the rug and pretend like it had never happened. Sighing ruefully, Varric nodded with reluctance, struggling to recall whether he'd actually received such a warning. _Well, shit._ "Right… I remember getting something about that, but I've been kinda distracted, lately. Come on, let's talk inside. I'll see if the Inquisitor is available to talk it over."

As he moved to take the next flight of stairs, she placed a hand on his chest, stopping him instantly in his tracks. "Hey, let's not get ahead of ourselves…" Perhaps his own awkwardness was catching, because she was biting her lip thoughtfully, not removing her hand and instead allowing her touch to linger after a moment's decision. Was she _trying_ to manipulate him like putty in her hands, or was she really this dead-set on getting him killed? "I don't want to bother _her_ with this. I was… thinking more along the lines of asking your _other_ friend to give us a hand."

He didn't quite know what she was getting at with all this secrecy. Turning to look her directly in the face, his brow furrowed in confusion. "I've made a lot of friends over the years, Bianca. Any chance you can tell me which one specifically you're after? Or maybe you could just let me know what kind of trouble you're in. That would be helpful." Her conspiratorial nature was setting off alarm bells within him. By the shifting of her eyes, he could tell she was holding something back. _What's she gotten herself into this time?_

"Just trust me on this one, Varric," she whispered as she stepped closer to him, and whatever power she had over him was working like magic. "I need your man from Kirkwall. He's got experience in this area already, unlike this _new_ girl you've associated yourself with… No offence, but I'd rather go with someone who operates in the shadows for this one… Hawke, right? Can you arrange a quiet meeting for me?"

At the mere utterance of his old friend's name, Varric's heart nearly tore in half. For a brief, shining moment, he had started to ask himself the best way to get in contact with Hawke in the Anderfels. But then the memories had come flooding back... It was just like Bianca to remind him of better times.

And to also remind him, even unintentionally, that those times were long gone.

"He's a little, uh… beyond our reach," Varric started, swallowing the hard, aching lump forming in his throat. "For us dwarves, at least… Looks like we have a lot of catching up to do while you're here."

Apprehensive of his words, Bianca nodded and stepped back a pace. "Hmm… Sounds foreboding. Lead on, then. If Hawke's not available, I'll take whoever comes best recommended for the job."

A heavy sigh of trepidation escaped his lungs, and Varric took a step toward the keep, mindful of his busted foot. As he ascended the steps, he tried to compose his racing thoughts, but they went on without him and he was unable to keep up. Damn, he had so many questions for her… Where to start was the real snag. She followed closely behind him, keeping to herself and doing her best not to be noticed by anyone.

But someone else was doing a better job of it than her. "Has it been five minutes, yet?"

The whispering voice penetrated his thoughts and grinded him to a halt. Looking up, he easily spotted the Kid waiting at the main entrance for him as though he'd been there all along. How much had Cole overheard? Sighing quietly, Varric already figured he knew the answer to that. "Feels like an eternity since we last talked," he answered the compassionate spirit regretfully as he passed through the foyer.

"Sentimental sod… Aw, who am I kidding? I missed you, too," Bianca replied unwittingly. "Let's not leave it so long between visits, next time."

Mildly surprised, Varric shot her a befuddled look and noticed plainly that she seemed to walk right past Cole without hesitation. It was as if she didn't even know the Kid was there at all, and as he glanced in his friend's direction once more, he realised that must have been exactly the spirit's intention. He was a ghost in their presence, seen and heard by Varric alone. Cole's candid stare followed the sullen man as he made his way fireside, making him feel somewhat uncomfortable. If the Kid wanted to have a conversation, it was going to have to be one-sided, unless he wanted to look like he was losing his mind in front of her.

"I wanted to tell you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt Cassandra."

Varric closed his eyes and leaned over the table, his hands resting on its rough surface as Bianca invited herself to snoop through his records in search of something specific. _No, Kid,_ Varric thought, trusting that Cole could hear him regardless of his wordless reply, _that one's on me. Don't blame yourself._

"You didn't mean it, either…" The Kid vanished from view for a split second, but he caught sight of the spirit in his peripheral vision as he reappeared next to the fire, staring into the soothing flames intensely. "Back in the tavern… If I had said Bianca was outside, instead, would that have stopped you from doing what you did?"

Leave it to Cole to ask this line of questioning, forcing him to be introspective for a minute as he considered his answer. _She's waiting for you in the courtyard._ At the time, he had thought those words to be ones of encouragement. In hindsight, he realised they had actually been words of warning. Without having to be told beforehand, Cole knew the link between Varric and his mysterious visitor from the east, and he had tried to alert Varric of her arrival before his spontaneous speech outside Buttercup's window. But would that have honestly made him reconsider his foolish actions…?

He knew the answer to that question better than he knew himself, but it was the step of admitting it that forced him to see himself in that painful light. Looking toward the entryway, toward the Seeker, he swallowed gravely, knowing in that moment that he couldn't fix what he had done. With a nod, he acknowledged his failure finally and completely. On this day, he had probably blown his last shot with Cassandra, all because he couldn't bring himself to tell Bianca the truth. But why was he hiding it from her?

"Because you don't want Bianca to believe you're better, now…" Cole analysed him unabashedly, feeling the intensity of the blame, the past, the grim acceptance of his pain. He channelled the hurt to give it an outlet, like a broken faucet now fixed, the truth flowing like running water from the innermost depths of his spirit. _"Bend and bow, bowing to Bianca, bad blood brewing bitterness from barely-burned bridges. It breaks their bond, builds barriers, buries her in battle against old blights and black bruises that won't get better..._ But it isn't over."

Straightening awkwardly, he hoped the Kid would stop his prying soon, if only to give him respite and allow him to leave those old wounds alone. After all, they were kept in the dark for a reason. "Thanks for the pep talk, Kid," he quietly dismissed his friend, fiddling with is gold earring uneasily as he offered him the shadow of an apologetic half-smile.

"Hmm? What was that?" Bianca glanced up from her inspection of his parchments, her brow furrowing as she tried to decipher his meaning.

He turned his attention back to the present moment, dismissing his last statement with a small shrug of his broad shoulders. "Ah, nothing. You know me; just talking to myself."

"Whatever works for you, dearest," she teased him lightly. Making her way through the last of the pile, she finally laid eyes on the missive, the red wax seal clearly broken. "A- _ha_ , here it is. See? I warned you I'd stop by if you didn't get in touch."

As Varric took the parchment from her hands, she crossed her arms in silent victory, and he immediately recognised her find as the message Tiny had lifted from his grasp – before then lifting _him_ and hauling him, practically kicking and screaming, to the tavern for their late-night card game, starkly reminding him of yet another transgression he had committed against Cassandra, that night. He knew he'd recognised that handwriting from somewhere. It was all there, albeit encoded, but had he gone back over this, he could have prepared himself better for her inevitable arrival...

Turning toward the fire to ask Cole something else, he opened his mouth, the words on the tip of his tongue –

But the spirit boy was gone. He would have to deal with this on his own.

Frowning in consternation, Varric turned his attention back to Bianca and laid her message down on the table. "Look… I appreciate the warning, but you shouldn't have come yourself. What if the guild found out? Or whatshisname?"

Raising a hand dismissively, she again laid her arm over the other on her chest, deflecting his concern far too nonchalantly for his taste. "Are you worrying for me or for yourself?"

"A little of column A, a little of column B," he sighed, knowing there was nothing he could do to convince her otherwise. They both knew she was too valuable to the Merchants' Guild to be risking herself like this, but he was the only one taking that threat seriously, it seemed. "I am the expendable one, after all."

 _"Awww,"_ she laughed adoringly, not doing much to put him at ease. "Don't worry, I'll protect you. We'll just have to – "

Movement to his left caught their attention, and they turned awkwardly as the Herald sauntered over to join them, an inquisitive look on her tattooed face. He knew that look all too well, but it only befitted her title.

"Well, this is a surprise… You're the Inquisitor, right?" Bianca opened with a smile to disguise the tension he instinctively knew she felt. She hadn't wanted to involve someone as high up as the Inquisitor, but it wasn't a contingency she could avoid with an elf as curious as Lavellan now on the case. Varric's only hope left was to get the stubborn dwarf back to Orlais before their throats were jointly slit.

"Bianca Davri, at your service…"

**~oOo~**

A chambermaid had slipped in quietly, bearing a tray of supper for the Seeker, and had left it on a sideboard by the door while Cassandra inspected the requisition equipment for any imperfections. She'd made herself busy to distract her mind and, surely enough, had done a fine job of it. A series of deep breaths and soft-spoken prayers had soothed her aching heart enough to see what had happened from another perspective. In due course, she had calmed considerably as she'd eaten her stew and potatoes, and her thoughtful introspection while she'd finished the hunk of bread and water had gone a long way toward extinguishing her anger at the whole situation.

It would have been helpful if she could stop by the chapel to pray or seek counsel about her fears with Mother Giselle, but she didn't want to risk passing through the great hall, at present. No doubt _she_ was there with him, and the last thing Cassandra wanted to do was create an awkward situation for everyone involved. Whatever Bianca was here for was their business, not hers. Still, a part of her that she abhorred wondered whether this was business or pleasure…

There was a knock at the door, and she raised her head automatically in confusion. More often than not these days, people preferred to announce their presence simply by appearing out of nowhere. It had been too long since someone had politely waited for her to grant permission to enter. Was it Varric, coming to apologise for earlier? Inwardly, she prayed it was; there was so much she needed to reassure him of before he prostrated himself at her feet. Cassandra set the shield down on a rack and crossed the handful of steps to the door, opening it slowly.

She smiled at the Seeker charmingly from the other side. "Ah, there you are, my dear," Madame de Fer greeted her courteously. "May I come in?"

Cassandra couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed, but pulled the door a bit wider regardless to allow the enchantress to pass into the armoury. "Is there something I can do for you, Madame Vivienne?" She asked, her voice low and hoarse from disuse.

She pivoted round to look at her, a seemingly genuine expression of concern on her perfect face. "On the contrary, Lady Cassandra: I had wondered if there was anything I might do for you."

Stunned for a moment, Cassandra's mind went blank. "For _me?_ ...I don't follow."

"No," Vivienne commented dryly, "but Varric followed _you_ to the door, didn't he, dear?" She walked over to the middle of the room, running a hand along the hilt of a sword on the long table as she spoke softly. "The view from my balcony is remarkably unspoiled, Lady Seeker, but unfortunately it isn't the most beneficial location for eavesdropping. Still, though, I find my time in the Empress's palace has blessed me with an unrivalled talent for reading body language and social cues… Even those of stout little dwarven men." She threw a knowing glance over her padded shoulder, obviously studying her for clues.

It all felt like an invasion – an exceedingly polite one, but an invasion, nonetheless. Vivienne wouldn't be here for any reason that didn't involve her personal gain in some way. "If you're here to gather gossip about whatever Varric was doing in the courtyard, I'm afraid I'm not much one for participating in that pastime."

"Oh, I'm well aware of that fact, darling," she replied readily, a delicate hand waving the Seeker's misgivings aside.

"Then what are you doing here?" she bit out more forcefully than she had intended, eager to get to the point and have it over with.

"Your hospitality needs a little work, my dear," she sighed disappointedly, clasping her hands behind her back as she made her way to Cassandra's side, her high heels creating a noticeable sway in her hips. "I simply wanted to express my deepest sympathies for your sad situation." When this elicited nothing but a blank stare from the warrior, Vivienne's brows angled pitifully. "How excruciatingly horrendous it must have been for you to experience such embarrassment at his hands. And so publicly, too. Tell me, how are you handling it?"

 _She_ _knows,_ Cassandra realised, suddenly wary of Vivienne's true intentions. She understood enough of Orlesians – or at least those immersed in that culture – to know that any secret, especially one so irresistible, could easily be modified into a weapon against her. She didn't understand exactly how her feelings were valuable to the mage, yet, but apparently Vivienne had an ulterior motive, or why else would she be here like this?

Wanting to downplay the whole affair, the Seeker shook her head slowly. "There is nothing to handle, Vivienne... It was only a joke."

Madame de Fer smiled softly, but not with her eyes, which bored into her own with intensity. _"Really,"_ her melodic voice pried slowly, watching Cassandra's narrow brown eyes carefully. Arching a single brow sceptically, she turned and crossed the floor again, folding her arms over her abdomen and studying the blades one by one as she passed them. "The dwarf in the courtyard," she continued conversationally. "I recognise her from Val Royeaux. She is the proprietor of quite an ingenious little establishment, and comes highly recommended, or so I'm told. Empress Celine has called upon her services several times, over the years. Her fee is nothing to sneeze at, but I must say, when she fixes a problem in the city, it _stays_ fixed. I like that in a person: someone who can get the job done and knows what their skills are worth… What was her name, again? It seems to have escaped me."

"Bianca," Cassandra helpfully put in, picking up a sword to check for balance.

She snapped her delicate fingers and smiled. "Ah, yes, Ms. Bianca Davri. Thank you, that would have plagued my mind all night, I'm sure. Am I to understand you're familiar with her?"

Not knowing where this subtle interrogation was headed, Cassandra avoided all eye contact, instead focusing on the blade as she slashed the air in front of the hearth. "Not greatly. But I have heard of the woman, before."

There was a long moment of silence as Vivienne simply watched her swing the blade, the light playing off the metal and dancing throughout the room, but eventually the enchantress stepped in again, pressing on. "As I'm sure you know, it's valuable in Halamshiral to know everything about everyone who passes through or happens to make a name for themselves. Given your… 'relationship' with Varric, I only thought you should be aware of their long history."

She nearly stopped dead in her tracks, but she caught herself before she could let such an obvious slight slip. In its place, she exhaled a trained breath and laid the sword down, picking up another one at random and repeating the test as though entirely unaffected. "I have no relationship with Varric outside of our business with the Inquisition," Cassandra replied levelly. "Nor do I desire one."

As she arched her arm to bring the sword down in a practised overhand attack, her blade collided with another, an ethereal conjuration that blocked her swing in mid-air. Vivienne was standing directly in front of her now, her eyes piercing her own as she held the connection a while longer. "Don't you?" she wondered, the quality of her voice entirely unchanging.

Cassandra let her arm fall by the wayside, the steel of her sword singing as contact was broken like it would with any other blade, strangely enough. Stepping back a pace or two, her eyes went wide when Vivienne again stepped forward quickly, and she raised her blade in time to block her incoming swing.

"May I offer you some advice on the matter, my dear…? From one mistress to another?"

Taken aback by this, Cassandra retreated slightly, her arms going slack as she clumsily put the sword back down on the table. Until his unfortunate death to inexplicable illness, Vivienne had been the mistress of Duke Bastien, who was a married man when they'd met at the Imperial Wintersend Ball, presumably decades ago. And now she simply wanted to pass on what she had learned from her experience in that position? Not likely, and even then, Cassandra didn't need it one bit; their situations weren't the same whatsoever. She said nothing further, not wanting to invite comments her way.

It didn't matter, though, for as Vivienne concluded her spell and lightly laid her hands together beneath her breastbone, she dispensed her unique brand of wisdom: "In your… delicate circumstances, it's best to allow for his feelings to naturally progress, rather than forcing a man to prove he is someone he isn't at heart. With that also comes the added advantage of appearing to be indifferent to his charms, thereby practically guaranteeing that he lay spoils at your feet for your undivided attention. An air of complacency keeps a man wanting more… Don't you agree?"

Leaning against the edge of the table, Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes to slits suspiciously. "We are who our Maker created us to be," she nodded once, hoping to appease her enough to make her leave.

"Indeed we are," she nodded back in satisfaction. "It is also imperative to remain focused on your own duties, as I'm sure you would without my saying so, but not be so consumed by them that they become… detrimental." Her gaze steeled as she stared at Cassandra, waiting for the woman to meet her eyes. When she did, she concluded, "Might I suggest, darling, that you release any…hypothetical obligations which may impede your budding relationship, and simply enjoy the moment for what it is."

And then the copper dropped. At first, she had been confused as to what the enchantress' interest could be in Cassandra's personal life, but with her last statement, it was all beginning to make perfect sense. "Hypothetical obligations," Cassandra repeated with a slight, cynical chuckle, shifting to cross her ankles as she sighed out her frustrations. She should have known it was all leading to this.

"My dearest Lady Pentaghast," Vivienne smiled with venomous charm, "your thoughts are daily consumed by the present chaos and your growing affections for a certain merchant prince without _further_ distressing yourself over the future... Perhaps it would serve you well to set aside any lingering aspirations for advancement, and concentrate instead on rebuilding the Seekers of Truth, as well as… whatever it is the two of you share. I must admit, you do make an _odd_ couple, but I suppose I can see the appeal, plainly enough. Don't deny yourself this pleasure, for Maker knows that such chances at true happiness are few and far between, in this life."

She couldn't help the ironic laughter that escaped her tight lips, though she kept it subdued, shaking her head in utter disbelief at the lengths the woman was willing to go, all to ensure her own ascension to the Sunburst Throne. _"That_ is what you came for? To capitalise on my troubles for your own selfish aspirations? To convince me to retract my petition for Divine?"

 _"Nonsense_ , darling," Vivienne responded as though affronted by the accusation. "I am here to share my opinion on your unfortunate situation, as a friend, and nothing more."

Glaring openly, Cassandra scoffed, "Not unfortunate for _some,_ apparently."

Appearing disheartened, Madame de Fer lowered her hands to her sides and sighed softly. "If I have overstepped in your private affairs, Cassandra, I shall ask for your forgiveness… Perhaps you need time to consider what's been said, though I do hope you understand that I spoke purely from a place of concern for you." Pausing for effect, Vivienne walked around the table and headed for the courtyard, her heels clicking in her wake. "I shall retire to my room, should you desire to speak again on the matter."

Before she could reach the door, the Seeker turned her head, speaking over her shoulder to the scheming viper. "You should know that I do not desire the position, Madame Vivienne… But if I see that it is indeed the will of the Maker, I will not hesitate to do what must be done."

Her hand resting on the door, she glanced back and replied coolly, "Wise words, my dear. So shall I… Enjoy the remainder of your evening."

And with that, Vivienne left the armoury, the door closing with finality behind her.

**~oOo~**

Lavellan seemed to be weighing Bianca's words carefully, and Varric was glad for it. Though she sometimes reminded him of a more subdued version of Daisy, she always appeared to consider her options carefully.

And hopefully they'd been clear enough on exactly what the risks were, if the operation was left to continue uninterrupted.

"…We need to deal with this," Lavellan nodded finally, trading a determined look with Varric. "As long as he has this source, Corypheus is that much more powerful."

Sighing, Varric was outwardly relieved. "I couldn't agree more," he added in an expression of gratitude. _Let's get this over with,_ he thought anxiously.

"I'll keep an eye on their operation," Bianca nodded gratefully at the Inquisitor, preparing to be off. "If you're interested in shutting it down, you've got my help."

Stunned, Varric turned to her abruptly, his mouth hanging open like a fish gasping for air on the docks. She was leaving _again,_ just like that? The mountains were too dangerous at night for solitary travel. Was she out of her mind?

Then again, the climate was probably less hazardous to her health than spending a night here with him… for all concerned parties.

"Try not to leave me waiting too long, Varric," she smiled familiarly, leaving him to flush out the details with his friend. "I've got my own work to do, you know."

Lavellan said her goodbyes and allowed Bianca to make a quiet exit from the hall, once again disappearing into the night and out of Varric's life – for now. Aside from the crackling of the fire at his back, there wasn't a sound to be heard between himself and the Inquisitor, and the two were quickly becoming awkward.

"Right… That's not going to be trouble at all," he commented dryly to break the silence, a sense of foreboding hanging over his head.

The Herald held up a hand, stopping him before he could return to his desk and file away his paperwork. "Are you alright, Varric?" She asked softly, concern in her voice as she eyed him sympathetically.

"I'm fine, Inquisitor," he reassured her, his own voice sounding hollow to his ears. "Don't worry about me; I'm all grown up, now. I can handle this sort of shit with my eyes closed."

She chuckled to herself, appreciating his keen ability to make light of heavy situations. "In that case, I'll have a word with my Advisors right away. I'm almost positive they'll agree to let me take a team to Redcliffe for a few days. But we can't risk carting everyone along for this one. We don't want to attract attention to what we're doing there."

"Got anyone specifically in mind for this one?" He pried in interest. "I've got a couple of recommendations, myself, if you don't mind my input."

"I had my own thoughts on that, but let's hear your idea," she urged him gently, taking up a seat and leaning over the table, her hands clasped together on the surface as she lent him a pointed ear.

"Right. So, who're we thinking would be our best options?" He thought pensively, scratching his stubbly chin. "There'll be darkspawn in that old thaig, so Hero would be – Oh, wait –"

"Yeah, I already thought of that," Lavellan interrupted, running a hand through her tangled, fair hair. "Blackwall's not any use to us for _that_ reason, anymore… Without his ability to sense the darkspawn, I suppose the next best person would be Cole, if we want to see them coming, but I still need another heavy to hold off an attack so you, Bianca, and I can attack at range."

"Well, Hero's still good for that," Varric pointed out, apprehension about what the next few days would bring riddling his bones. "Besides, he'll need the practice before we're done here and he takes off for Weisshaupt."

"Hmm," Lavellan considered the suggestion, biting her lip thoughtfully. She was wiped out; he could see it beneath the patterns on her face. All in all, it had been a long day, and they were both ready to hit the hay. "No," she eventually answered with a slow shake of her head. "I think we'd be better off with Cass, actually."

"The –" He choked on his tongue slightly and cleared his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs. "The _Seeker?"_

Smirking tiredly, the elf clarified dutifully, "Varric, if we're going on a special mission for you and your little friend, _she's_ the only one I trust to keep you in line." The Dalish gave him a knowing wink before rising to her feet and arching her back in a luxurious stretch.

This was the exact contingency he had wanted to avoid from the start, but without argument, Varric grimaced to himself and gave a single nod in sober acknowledgement. "No problem, Inquisitor… Let me know when you want to head to the entrance."

"We'll set off at dawn," she replied with a poorly concealed yawn. "Get some rest, pal. I'll see you in the morning."

As she made her quiet way through the empty hall toward the Ambassador's office, he plunked down in his vacant chair, his mind spinning him into an uneasy daze. So it was decided, then. Varric, his old and sometimes lover, his former interrogator and secret lover, a mind-reading Fade spirit with a big mouth, and a Dalish elf who spread information like a stray dog spread fleas, would all be going down into an ancient dwarven thaig. In the dark. Together. With only conversation and carnage to pass the time…

 _What could go wrong?_ he thought plaintively.

Startled, Varric looked down at an odd shadow just as his erstwhile pet leapt up to knead at his lap. Everything was making him jumpy, but his heart slowed to a steady pace as he scratched lovingly behind Mouse's ears, stroking her from head to tail to relax her and himself. Thinking about the mission to come, he decided it would be best to alert Cole and Cassandra before morning came to deliver their new orders. Staring down at the purring ball of grey fur, he took a deep lungful of air and pursed his lips, exhaling his reservations along with his breath.

"It's okay, I already know. You only need to tell her."

He couldn't even bring himself to jump at those disembodied words. Of _course_ he was still here. "What were you doing there all that time, Kid?" He asked bluntly.

Cole reappeared by the fire exactly where Varric had last seen him, and he turned his pale eyes from the flames to crouch down next to the dwarf, gawking openly at the cat in his lap. "Just feeling," he answered as Mouse raised her small head to return the spirit's intense stare. "She is a fighter… Just like Anders was. He would have liked her very much."

That dropped on Varric like a ton of bricks, causing him to lower his head into his waiting hand. Would that wound ever truly heal…? "I, uhm," he stumbled through his words disjointedly, fighting the fatigue that threatened to manifest his tears, "I should go talk to the Seeker, Kid… Mind watching the girl for me?"

"No, I don't mind," Cole replied breathlessly, barely able to contain his excitement. He nodded quickly at the cat and asked her point-blank, "Do you mind?"

Mouse just stared for a moment at the strange young man, but surprisingly enough, she answered with a small mewling that brought a sweet smile to Cole's ghostly face. "That's good," he said, standing to his full height without breaking eye contact with the little creature. "There's some mint in the kitchens. Do you like to dance?"

The cat stood on all fours and bent to jump safely down from Varric's lap, seemingly replying to Cole's question as though they spoke the same language. "No, I haven't tried that, before," the Kid said conversationally, his voice fading as the two walked away side by side, "but if you say it's fun, you'll have to show me how to do it…"

Smiling to himself, Varric rubbed the back of his neck and stood up slowly, wanting nothing more in that moment than for Anders to have been able to see just what a character his little kitten had turned out to be.

"Wish me luck on the whole 'finding love' thing, Blondie," he prayed under his breath as he lightly limped toward the stairs, all the while wondering what exactly he was going to say to her.

**~oOo~**

The temperature of the bath water practically melted the stress from her aching muscles, washing away the meddlesome musings at the forefront of her mind. Loosening the braid around her crown and pulling it apart with two fingers, she let the wavy lock float on the surface before it sank gradually against her chest. The day had finally given way into night, and this was just what she needed to relax after the nerve-wracking events of the past hours.

Leaning back against the brim of the steel tub, she dried her hands with the cotton towel hanging on the back of the old chair and picked up her tattered copy of _Tale of the Champion,_ the light of the fireplace illuminating the pages as she found her place and resumed reading. It was still tough to swallow the idea that Hawke's tale was over forever, but to all intents and purposes, at least the story had ended as meaningfully as it had begun…

There was another soft rapping at her door for the second time today, and her eyes widened momentarily as she looked into the dim corner of her room. Cassandra's brows drawing together in confusion, she glanced out her window to reassure herself that it was indeed as late as she had believed it to be, setting the book down cautiously on the seat of her chair.

"Hey," his gravelly voice uttered on the other side of the door, her blood racing in her veins as she realised who it was that had paid her a visit. "Just wanted to tell you to pack your things… We're headed for Lake Calenhad at dawn, as soon as we get the all-clear… Actually that's only half true. I wanted to tell you…" There was a long pause before she eventually thought she heard him turn away from her bedroom door. "Ah, shit," his voice trailed away as he slowly put distance between them.

"Varric, wait," she called gently, her heart in her throat as she tried to dissuade his miserable retreat. The footsteps came to a stop suddenly, and he waited in silence for more from her.

Looking down, she realised that her tub and the lighting were conveniently dark enough to effectively conceal all beneath the water's surface. Her breath trembling in her throat, she glanced shiftily about the confines of her small room before gaining the courage to say the words on the tip of her tongue. "Come in," she invited nervously, not certain of what his reaction would be. "We should… talk."

He seemed to consider her offer for a time, and she heard the shaky sigh that leaked from his chest before he turned the handle, stepping into the dimness of her room and closing the door quietly behind him. He looked very much like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It took Varric a moment to face her, but once he did, his eyes were immediately drawn to the firelight playing off her soaked skin. Mercifully, all from her upper chest and downward was masked from view, but she couldn't ignore that his awkwardness was rising to a level not previously experienced between them.

"Uh… Well, this is…" Varric coughed uneasily, clearing his gruff throat of an unexpected obstruction while casting his eyes to the floorboards. "Doesn't this qualify as, ahem… 'invading your privacy', Seeker?" He glanced up hesitantly, and the nervous smirk at the corner of her mouth appeared to relax him slightly, as if knowing that she felt just as tense actually reassured him to some degree.

"If it was an invasion of my privacy, I wouldn't have asked you to come in…" Tucking her glistening knees up another inch or so, the water swirled around her and created a soft babble as it resettled around her. "Don't worry. I am not shy, if you aren't."

He let out the ghost of a laugh, not quite knowing what to do with his hands. "Yeah, I'm starting to get that vibe." Eventually, he decided to hook his thumbs in his belt loops, and he stood at a distance, careful not to glance in her direction longer than respectability would allow. "Hang on, I need a minute to process this."

Studying him at length, she noticed that he rested his foot on the toe of his boot instead of laying it flat against the floor, thereby avoiding putting too much weight on that side. "Has someone seen to your ankle, yet?" she asked absently, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her chin on top.

Varric looked down at the offending limb, shaking his head distractedly. _"Bah_. With all the madness, today, I didn't really have time to stop by the infirmary. It's not the first time the damn thing has given me trouble. It's never really been the same since…" He shifted uncomfortably, leaning against the door to feign a casual dismissal toward the injury. "Since that day."

Her heart softened at the memory, silently recalling those long, anxious nights spent at his bedside, readily doing whatever was asked of her in order to help him recover. She had been wracked with guilt over his condition, only for him to later explain that he had borne the attack from his possessed friend purely to save her life.

It was a long time coming, but her heart ached at realising that she hadn't been completely fair to him. She had insisted that he prove his feelings for her, when all the while the proof was staring her in the face. He'd already done all that was necessary to convince her long before she'd even asked him to. For the love of Andraste, he'd nearly _died_ for her… Looking up at him, she wrestled her emotions back down to something manageable, wondering for a while if there was anything she could do to prove it, in turn.

Sighing with marked decision, Cassandra sat up carefully and scooted the chair over the floor until she had successfully moved it to the end of the steel tub. She had to start somewhere. "Take off your boot," she gently ordered, patting the seat in frank indication of what she had in mind.

Varric tensed against the door, staring open-mouthed at the steaming water. It wasn't so much that he was scandalised by her offer, but rather he hadn't expected such a warm reception after his fumble, not long ago. "I, uh," he stammered, clearing his throat yet again, "I mean… You sure there's enough room?"

Cassandra lowered herself back down against the back of the tub and brought her knees up a touch in demonstration. "It's alright," she coaxed him, closing her eyes as she soaked. Resting her temple against the warm steel, she added, "You need this more than I do."

She listened to the resulting peacefulness in her room, the keep and its occupants outside her door gradually fading from existence around them. The flames danced over her eyelids, and she felt as though she could fall asleep like this, comforted in the knowledge that he was nearby, watching over her. A dozen seconds or more passed before she heard him unclasp his leather boots and slip them off, placing the pair in front of the fire. Cassandra stole a peek at him and watched as he removed a sock, rubbing at the tenderness around his ankle, an injury he had sustained whilst leaping after her in an act of desperation to save their love.

He came around and stood by the chair, bending slightly to pick up her worn book. Varric held it in his calloused hands for a time before lightly tracing the gouge on the cover with his thumb and sighing regretfully, moving to place it on the lid of her war chest. Sitting himself steadily down on the creaking chair, he shot her a glance to be certain of her permission and, upon receiving her nod of approval, rolled up the hem of his trouser leg and lowered the sore foot into the water. His relieved groan was enough to make her break out in a smile, bringing forth an adoring chuckle along with it.

Varric's face lit up at the musical sound, his eyes sparkling as they reflected the dancing flames. "I don't think I've ever heard you laugh, before," he commented with a wry grin, kicking his foot softly through the water as his pain eased considerably. "Unless you were covered in someone else's blood, at the time."

Cassandra turned away in embarrassment as she caught herself, repositioning so her back pressed against the tub and her arms crossed over her chest somewhat protectively. "Don't let it be the last time," she rolled her eyes, watching as the smouldering wood pile collapsed in on itself and turned the log upside down, exposing its glowing, red underside. It looked just like red lyrium when it did that.

The awkward silence rooted itself back in its rightful place once more as they both looked in opposite directions, and the air grew oppressive as they avoided the conversation on both their minds. Aware that he had met her more than halfway for the past month or so, she humbled herself and set aside her stubborn pride. Turning to face him with an intake of breath, the new movement caught his eye, and she observed in good humour as his gaze involuntarily travelled downward.

Caught red-handed, Varric shut his brandy eyes tightly and bit his lower lip, scoffing at his own disreputable behaviour and training his wandering stare on the submerged leg. _"Shit_. Sorry," he muttered, shaking not only with suppressed mirth.

Mindful of the level of the water, she lowered her knees and leaned forward, knowing there was something she could do that he would appreciate. Taking his ankle in her softened hands, she quietly began to massage the bruised joint for him. The sigh that left his throat then was different from the last, slightly breathless and airy all at once, and his foot eventually relaxed in her comforting grasp. He leaned back as he closed his eyes, utterly speechless at her unexpected change of heart.

"There is nothing to apologise for," she revealed, her voice just above a whisper. His foot brushed against her calf beneath the water, and he jerked on his seat, apparently still on edge and expecting her to reach for her sword if he violated some invisible barrier. Purposefully moving his foot to rest against her leg again, the closeness went a long way toward relaxing him. "I have injured you on more than one occasion, and even if I once enjoyed it more than I should have, I owe you more kindness than I have shown, lately."

He looked thoroughly bewildered at the unexpected turn of events, his fingers gripping the edge of his seat as he held himself steady. Unable or unwilling to protest, he shrugged and chuckled to himself, "Well, as Sera would put it, 'don't punch a gift horse in the face.' I've still got my guard up in case you decide to strangle me, though."

She sighed out another soft laugh, working her way around his ankle and massaging the sore tendons and muscles slowly. "Always a good precaution to take," she agreed sarcastically.

The ice well and truly broken, Varric cleared his throat in preparation for his next topic, and she could feel his eyes on her as he whispered gruffly, "Seeker… Cassandra, I'm sorry about what happened, today... I really wanted to make you – I guess I… wanted to be the man you'd always pictured in your dreams." She paused her therapeutic rubdown, her eyes cast downward as she listened on. "Maybe that sounds stupid; I don't know… Before I went up there, I asked Sparkler if I had anything to lose, and he told me there was plenty… Well, I only just realised how right the bastard was."

Was he purposely trying to break her heart like this? A sudden heat rushed to her cheeks, and she was momentarily grateful for the poor lighting. Resuming her treatment, she shook her head from side to side. "But you were right; it was nothing more than a simple mistake. I've reflected on it since I saw you out the window… Varric, I watched from the armoury's top floor as you and… and Bianca met on the staircase…"

The Seeker felt him stiffen at her words. He was apparently unaware until that moment of her knowledge of the whole situation. "And, of course," she continued, trying to ease him back down again, "it would be unfair of me to hold a grudge, after all we've been through, over you just saying the wrong name at the wrong time… Knowing what you tried to do for me up there, in front of everyone… Well," she finished, meeting his tender gaze, "the intention behind your actions held great meaning for me."

Taken aback by her sentiment and the unconditional pardon she had granted him, Varric tentatively lowered his hand to her dark hair, stroking her from forehead to neck comfortingly. His hands were warm, inviting, gentle, strong… Everything she could have asked for in a man's touch.

"Can I ask," he wondered hesitantly, running a calloused thumb past her earlobe, "why you were so riled up back in the hall?" When she didn't answer straight away, instead going rigid beneath his hand, he hurriedly added, "Don't answer if it's gonna make you hit me."

"No, it's not that," she dismissed him with a wave, unintentionally splashing the leg of his trousers. Frowning as she thought about it more, Cassandra stopped what she was doing and wrapped her arms possessively about his leg, sighing out the frustration that she had momentarily forgotten. Worry planted itself like a dagger in her guts as she leaned on him, concerned that, should she let go, he might walk out on her after what she had to say. "You just reminded me of Madame Vivienne."

Pursing his lips, Varric placed his hand beneath her chin and lifted carefully, searching her eyes, so black in this light. "Did she say something to you?"

 _"Ugh,"_ she grunted in aggravation, a headache starting to take hold behind her eyes. She took her chin back by turning her head slightly, and she let out a heavy sigh before starting, "Actually, Josephine said it first, but _her_ motives were… more well-meaning than Vivienne's." Looking at him suddenly, her heart began to race within her as she feared what telling him might do to the tenderness between them, now.

But she was never one to shy away from the truth – or so she had believed, before all this.

Taking a deep breath, Cassandra let it all out, deciding that it was better he knew what he was getting into up front. "Josephine pulled me aside and persuaded me to talk about what was going on. I did not mention your name, but she was concerned about my… possible nomination."

His ginger brows drew together at her words, obviously not comprehending her meaning right away. "For what?" He asked, somewhat dumbstruck.

Biting her lip in indecision, she looked at him with an expression so full of worry that he must have caught onto it. "For Head of the Chantry," she revealed quietly, watching helplessly as his face paled noticeably in the firelight, tears nearly spilling out of her eyes.

"You –" He stuttered lamely, recollecting himself before he started again. "You're up for the next Divine?"

Groaning, she leaned back and slid herself down beneath the water for a time, only coming up once she had run out of air to expel from her lungs. At least it gave him time to think for a moment without her having to see his shocked face. Propping herself back up, she rested her elbows firmly on her knees and felt her spirit sink ever lower. "I was distraught. I had forgotten that the Inquisitor practically _interviewed_ me for the position ages ago, and when I realised what that could mean… for us…" Her voice trailed off, unwilling to believe that they could be over before anything had even begun. Grunting softly, she gripped her hair and let it all go in a single breath, "Then Vivienne showed up after she saw what you tried to do for me, and she attempted to steal the Sunburst Throne for herself by using _you_ as an incentive, and Maker, I swear that woman will stop at nothing to get what she wants – _that_ is the true reason she joined us, I'm convinced of –"

"So she's vying for the job, too?" he interrupted, his voice flooded with unexpected hope.

Cassandra looked up at him then, her anger giving way to surprise. Eyeing him openly, she studied his features, noticing that he wore stark relief on his face as though it were a high fashion. "Yes," she confirmed, glancing away and casting her gaze about the room, which was thoroughly heated now by her fireplace. "The Herald has not _actually_ chosen a successor, yet, but… Yes, we are among the candidates for the new Divine."

There was a long pause wherein the fate of their relationship hung in the balance, and her face contorted in grief for a split second before she corrected it, hiding her emotion from view with a practised, stern look. She wondered then if she had tipped the scales… Or completely knocked them over, ruining everything. "Don't you have anything to say?" She asked, preparing for the absolute worst.

Nearly a minute had ticked by before Varric looked around and stood up, moving his chair to the head of the bath. She let out a gasp involuntarily, catching the sob slightly too late as she closed her quivering lips. Pausing to gently pat her bare shoulder, he bent to the floor, retrieved her bottle of unscented cleanser, and poured a sovereign-sized dollop into his palm. As she stared at him, her knees reflexively tucking up to her chest, he couldn't help but smile, and methodically worked the thick liquid into a lather through her hair, mindful to brush his fingers over the long lock at the back of her head. She wondered then if he knew her hair had once been even longer than that dark lock, but she dismissed the thought of telling him as she closed her eyes, feeling his touch over her aching head and noticing how the tension drained remarkably from her body.

"Would it be selfish of me to admit that I'm rooting for Iron Lady to get the gig?" He confessed, and they laughed together sadly.

And so he hadn't pulled away from her, after all. She had been worried all this time for absolutely nothing. She had fought him at every turn, resisting the longings she had felt, raising her disciplined walls to his every advance, but she couldn't deny that her heart had ever yearned for much more than what her head would allow. Cassandra had been unfair to Varric, to herself, to their mutual desires, and had placed obstacles in their path out of fear that she might actually discover how truly happy he made her. But come whatever she might have thrown at him next, he was still willing to fight for a chance to be with her.

"Oh, Varric," her voice tore as she gave in to him at last, her hand reaching up to cover his own, "I hate that I love you, you conniving little shit."

He sighed out another laugh and stared deeply into her fragile soul, shaking his head at her endearingly. "Ah, go fuck yourself, Seeker."

Relieved to finally be honest with herself and to have her feelings recognised, she slid back down beneath the surface and rinsed her hair, but before she knew what was happening, Varric's hand dipped behind her head and lifted her face up from the bath water. Unable to open her eyes to decipher what was going on, she could only feel as he pressed his warm lips firmly to her own, and she braced herself with a hand as he struggled with the numerous buttons of his red overcoat.

"Never mind, I'll do it," he amended his last statement, enveloping her in a fervent embrace once his arms were freed. He gathered Cassandra to him, his tunic utterly soaked through, but he didn't seem to care, instead holding her as he explored her soft mouth with his own.

Cassandra pulled back slightly to look at him fully, her fingers gripping his hair firmly in sudden desperation. "But what about Bianca?" She reminded Varric, her heart racing as she felt her body eagerly respond to him. "W-what if the Maker has other plans for me?"

She was breathless, her back arching as he moved his hand beneath the water's surface, and the gasp that suddenly exploded from her throat echoed off the wooden beams overhead. Incapable of holding back any longer, she pushed up and kissed him again, only to feel herself being lifted effortlessly from her hot bath, steam pluming from her smooth skin.

"Trust me, Seeker," Varric groaned softly, barely able to separate himself long enough to assure her, "I'll burn that bridge when I come to it…"


	17. These Ghosts in our Bed

Varric awoke to the dim light of dying cinders in unfamiliar surroundings, blinking sluggishly until the room came into focus around him. Breathing deeply, he stretched his short legs and made to move his arm, but found that it was pinned down unexpectedly. Attempting to yawn away the last fragments of sleep, he turned slowly to investigate what was restricting his movement.

He was laying by her side, his nude form barely covered beneath the sheets of her rickety wooden bed, an arm serving as her borrowed pillow while she slept soundly, a look of pure contentment on her peaceful face. It took a handful of seconds for his mind to emerge from that sleepy haze, but as reality fixed around him once again, a small smile brushed over his dry lips. The fire, mere glowing remnants of charred logs at this point, emitted a soft radiance throughout the room, highlighting every achingly beautiful line of her crying out to be traced by the end of a wandering fingertip. Shifting just so, Varric raised a free arm toward her, his hand hovering over her shoulder as he debated whether or not the sensation would disturb her. In the end, he decided against the touch, not wanting to wake her at such an early hour.

Running a hand over his tussled hair instead, he cast his mind back disbelievingly over the events of the night. He'd gone from doting admirer to luckless bastard in a matter of minutes, and just when he'd thought his luck had surely run dry, the Seeker had finally opened her heart to him… Followed closely by her legs. She was a lover unlike anything he had expected from what he knew of her, a stark contradiction to her tough, rigid persona: vulnerable, gentle, yearning, receptive, soft-spoken, yet passionate and vocal about her deepest desires. If he had the power to tell his past self that _this_ is where he and his interrogator would end up, that version of him would have bet all the coin in Antiva against him out of spite.

Yet here he was, defying all the odds and staring at her face in the dark of the night, naked as a newborn and breathing in the tell-tale scents of well-spent love.

Cassandra stirred beside Varric, turning her back to him as she sleepily reached a hand up and found his own, pulling it close and holding it slackly as she resettled back into a comfortable dream. After carefully slipping his hand away and gathering her unplaited lock of hair to brush it down her spine, he pulled the thick sheet up to their shoulders and once again wrapped his free arm around her, bringing himself as close to her as the laws of nature would allow.

"So," he whispered to her form, tracing sleepy kisses over the nape of her neck and sighing softly, "this is what it feels like to dream… If only things could stay this way…"

And once more, he laid his head down on the pillow and closed his eyes, drifting contentedly off to sleep, his unlikely lover resting in his arms.

**~oOo~**

" _Galyan_."

She rose from her pillow, the name breaking from her throat and startling her back into consciousness. Her heart missed a beat or two as her eyes shot open to reveal a chilly, dark room – her room, she suddenly remembered, though nothing else was clear… Except his face.

Cassandra shuddered violently. She needed to get out of here.

Shooting up from her mattress, she quickly tossed her legs over the side and stood as though she was under attack, and by the rate her heart was pounding, it sure as hell felt like she was. Something tripped her up – clothes, a blanket, or sheets, she couldn't tell which – and she stopped to let her eyes adjust to her surroundings. The light outside her window was non-existent, too black to make out anything around her, and her breathing quickened in response to her rising panic. With all this darkness, it was far too easy to see his face right in front of her, so tragic and frantic.

There was a stirring to her left, and before she could gasp, the oil lamp on her bedside table flickered to life. Blinking against the light, the two of them shielded their eyes for a handful of seconds before focusing on one another, and it took just as long for her to close her gaping mouth, let alone register that he'd spoken to her.

"Seeker?" His voice was hoarser than usual due to his abrupt awakening. Propping himself up on an elbow, he rubbed a tired hand over his face while the other held the white sheet securely over his lower half. His hairy, expansive chest rose and fell with a yawn as he shifted and pushed himself up to a sitting position. "What's happening?"

Cassandra shook her head in distress, realising with sudden clarity that she was far more exposed than he was, standing in the middle of her room in nothing but her skin. "V-Varric?" Looking down, she saw the trail of his clothes leading from the bath to her bed, and instantly flushed a deep red. Why she was embarrassed _after_ the act – or _acts_ , she should say – was beyond her, but it was true regardless, and it was suddenly colder in here than she'd first estimated, crossing her arms over her exposed chest more for warmth than modesty.

"Were you expecting someone else?" Varric must have noticed her shivering because he hurriedly tucked the sheet around his middle and stood up, making his way past her to fetch his white, open-necked tunic. He slipped the garment over his head before dropping the bed sheet and handing it over, mercifully allowing her to then cover up as he kept his gaze averted. Thankful for the kind gesture, Cassandra pulled the thin cotton tightly around her and, feeling weak in the knees, walked the few paces to her chair, which had been knocked over in the scuffle some hours ago. After turning it upright, she shakily sat down and leaned over the bath water, cupping her hands beneath the now cool water and splashing her face in an effort to wake herself up completely.

As Varric restocked the fireplace with two dry logs and rekindled the flames, Cassandra kept her eyes on his back and unkempt bed hair, grounding herself in the present moment in order to fight the frightening images burned onto her mind's eye. Eventually, as his body almost became a silhouette against the light of the new fire, he made his way back to her side, stroking a hand over her back encouragingly. "Was it another nightmare?" He wondered, turning his head to plant a protective kiss on her temple. He barely needed to bend over to do so. "I heard you call out to him… How bad was it?"

The Seeker couldn't shake the upsetting picture, instead shutting her eyes tightly to fight the effects it was having on her physically. Those smiling green eyes, once full to the brim with carefree playfulness and admiration for her now peered through time itself with more horror than she was prepared to process. "…I saw him… burning in the fires of the temple, but I…" Cassandra shuddered again, trying to turn her head away from what wasn't truly there. "He cried out to me, and I screamed –"

Her voice caught on a painful lump in her throat. Swallowing around it, she relaxed slightly as a warm, calloused hand cupped her scarred jaw delicately. Shoulders sinking, she opened her eyes to a brighter, warmer room, the image gradually fading from her mind as the dream was nearly lost to her forever. "He was completely helpless," Cassandra whispered desperately, suddenly fighting the sting of tears as well. _Fighting_. That was all she seemed to do these days, anymore. "…And so was I."

She heard him shift to face her, and she raised her eyes to his as he placed his hands on her shoulders, his brow knitting with sympathy. "You know it didn't happen that way, Seeker," Varric implored her to see reason. "It was just a dream."

"But it _did_ ," she countered, shaking her head with remorse. "The proof being that he is _dead_ , and I could do _nothing_ to prevent it!"

"So what could you have done differently?" He shook her shoulders gently, tightening his grip a fraction. "If you'd been there with him, you would have died like all the rest – and me with you, since you wouldn't have let me out of your sight," he pointed out wryly, trying to lighten her mood.

It was unsuccessful. Racked by guilt, she admitted something that she had never dared utter to another soul until now. "Varric… In the days following the blast, I grieved greatly that it… was not Regalyan who had gained the mark instead of the Inquisitor…" Ashamed that the thought had ever come to mind, let alone on more than one occasion, Cassandra closed her eyes, her head sinking forlornly.

Sighing, the dwarf released her from his grasp and moved a hand to clasp her own, pulling her gently as he stepped away. "Come on, back to bed with you," he ordered quietly, seemingly not broken-hearted over her blatant mourning of another man.

Rising to her unsteady, frozen feet, she followed closely behind him before he let go to lower himself to the stuffed mattress, shifting himself to sit upright against the old wooden headboard. Patting the empty space next to him, he sent her an honest gaze, his arm outstretched toward her hip. After a moment more of staring into his solemn eyes, so sincere and empathetic, she relented and sat down on the bed's edge, unwrapping herself from the sheet and draping it over them as she turned to lay her head against his chest. He tucked them in soundly, his arm curling around her back and lending a hand to knead comfortingly at her shoulder. Cassandra brushed at her long lock of hair and absently pleated the strands as she leaned against him, listening to the slow thump of his beating heart echo through his flesh. Helpfully, he reached over to her bedside table and retrieved a tie for her hair before turning the wick in the oil lamp down into the burner, the light snuffing out so only the dancing flames illuminated the small room. Lowering her eyes for a moment, Cassandra absently began to push the neck of his tunic aside so she could better run her fingers through his curled chest hair, which shone a deep red as it caught the firelight just so.

"Let me tell you a short story, Seeker," Varric's deep voice thrummed through her ear on his chest soothingly. "And I swear, there are no lies in this one."

Smiling despite herself, she shifted to press herself against his side, draping a leg over his. "Time to start talking, dwarf," she mumbled, her smirk evident in her words as she spoke. "They tell me you're good at it…"

She heard the breath of Varric's chuckle as his chest shook for a second or two at that. His hand moved from her shoulder to her cropped hair, a soft touch that felt gratifyingly therapeutic to her sunken spirit. "The Fade is an otherworldly place with a mind all its own," he started, the Seeker rising with his chest as he took a deep breath. "It's not grounded in reality, not… _bound_ or restricted in the way we are. It's in the Fade's nature to guide you toward your heart's desire, and that's how it ensnares you, buries its claws in your head."

Cassandra wanted to say that she already knew this, but she kept silent for now, not wanting to interrupt his tale and choosing to listen to the storyteller give his perspective on typically unfamiliar territory, for a dwarf. He brushed a finger lightly over her cheekbone, continuing, "It's an interesting glimpse into your psyche when a demon tries to lure you into a trap of your own making. You start to discover things about yourself that you didn't know, like why you think the way you do, or what it would cost to sell your soul for what-ifs, if only to see how it all would have played out if things were different… But my experiences there never felt real, at least to me – which makes sense, considering."

Curious, Cassandra's brow furrowed as she raised her eyes to meet his, leaning up on an elbow and clutching the bed sheet to her chest. "How did the demons try to lure you?" She wondered, seeking the answer as though it was written somewhere in the faint lines of his face.

Glancing away at the wall, Varric smirked softly before turning back to her with a shrug. "Which time?" He sighed.

She thought about it for a moment, remembering back on the tales he had spun for her in the past. "There was the pride demon that tempted you with revenge on your brother for his betrayal… Or the fear demon that blamed you for getting the Champion involved and putting him in harm's way. Was it one of them you're referring to?"

"No, neither," he dismissed those troublesome memories with the wave of a hand. "There was another I never told you about. It's a long story, but… Well, this one time I tried – and slightly failed to destroy a Tevinter artefact that was hooked up to Maric Theirin. Okay, a lot failed. As I found out, you can't just shoot at evil blood magic contraptions and hope for the best, and needless to say, I got caught up in –"

Cassandra shot up on the bed, careful not to lose her grip on the sheet. "When was _this_? King Maric of Ferelden died in a _shipwreck_ before the last Blight!"

His brows shot up as he nodded along to her statement. "Well, yeah, they did a damn good job of making it _look_ like he went down with the ship, which was why we were out there in the first place. But that's not –"

"Varric," she interrupted insistently, "why have you never spoken of this until now? Go back to the beginning and start there!"

"Hey, let _me_ tell the story, Seeker," he stated calmly, running a gentle hand over her arm to coax her back down. Confused beyond reason, she wanted to hear his account of what had befallen the tragic former King, but decided now wasn't the best time for another interrogation. Giving Varric a suspicious look, she lowered her head back down to his chest, resting her hand on his abdomen before he patted her fingers gently and laid his atop her own, effectively calming her.

"As I was saying," he went on, careful to remove the frustrated edge in his voice before continuing, "next thing I knew, I was waking up in a bed that wasn't mine. My clothes were crumpled and strewn all over the floor – kind of like this room, only that one was a lot bigger. And for the life of me, I couldn't remember how the hell I got there. It all felt so familiar, so I didn't give it too much thought… until Bianca walked in through the bedroom door like she lived there and made herself at home in my arms."

She couldn't deny the way her heart sped up at the mere mention of the bright and beautiful dwarf, the object of Varric's desire for possibly half his life at this point, if not more. It was difficult to pinpoint whether she felt threatened by her presence at the keep or not. Up until this midnight confession of his, she had thoroughly convinced herself that there was nothing to fear, but knowing now that a demon had once used his greatest desire against him, and that the desire had been Bianca…

Varric ran a hand over his face and sighed before intertwining his fingers with her own over his stomach again, giving her a gentle squeeze of reassurance. "It's not easy to sell a merchant on what he recognises as just a cheap counterfeit, Seeker, and I can honestly say that I saw through the ruse pretty much right away. That didn't stop me from questioning whether I should go along with it for the sake of…" He shrugged awkwardly. "Yeah, I'm a man in case you haven't noticed, and I have needs just like anybody else does. Well, this _fake_ Bianca wanted me to give in to the illusion that she'd created from my memories, to stay with her and live out our lives together at long last. But I knew deep down that I couldn't trick myself into believing what was never real to begin with. So… I walked away from her, and finished the job I was sent to do."

His heart was pounding from the heart-wrenching recollection of his experience, but he came back to the present in that moment, holding tight to her upper arm as if to better anchor himself to this realm. "Now, you might be thinking that this had nothing to do with what you saw tonight, but here's my point… I'm no dream expert, Cassandra. I don't know why non-dwarves go to the Fade and play out their fantasies and fears, and I don't know why dwarves can't do likewise… What I _do_ know," he uttered with solid conviction, "is that the Fade reflects what's _in_ you, like a mirror for the soul that highlights every stray thought, however painful, and magnifies it tenfold. It preyed on you tonight, made you doubt yourself.

"But o _ur_ world," he stressed, bringing their clasped hands up to his chest for emphasis, "is the one that actually counts for something. _That_ Regalyan you saw wasn't the real deal, just the Fade showing you a version you made up in your head. Everyone knows there was nothing you could have done; it was beyond anyone's control, even the Divine's. What you _did_ have the power to change, the actions you took as a result of everyone else scrambling for cover… _That's_ where you shined brightest, Seeker… So keep this in mind the next time his memory haunts you: It's not really him because if he was even _half_ as decent as you say he was, the real guy wouldn't've given you hell for something that wasn't your fault. Especially if he really cared about you."

Cassandra stared emptily at the stone wall, a lone tear breaking past her barriers and falling freely until it absorbed into his tunic. Wiping at her nose, she slowly sat up and turned away, her feet touching the floor in anticipation of getting up to wash her face and cool her stinging eyes.

As his touching words echoed through her mind, his hand running over her back supportively, she lifted her eyes to the window, an epiphany striking her, and the dwarf hadn't expected it when she turned toward him again, placing a hand on his side of the mattress in a manner that caged him in. "Everything you just said about Regalyan," she whispered, her eyes pleading with him as she leaned her body close, "every absolution you gave me… It also applies just as well to you."

Noting the furrowing of his brow as he stared back at her, Cassandra brought a hand up to touch his cheek, letting it slide down his warm body until her fingers rested over his heart. Her soft brown eyes closed as she moved close enough to rest her forehead against his own, her words scraping painfully from her throat as she comforted him in return. "Varric, there was nothing you could have done for Hawke… He wouldn't want you to beat yourself up over him, and you know it…"

She heard the breath catch in his thick throat and felt his chest rise and fall shakily beneath her hand as he thought of a proper way to respond. "Yeah, maybe you're right," Varric admitted huskily, the spark gone from his eyes. He touched the side of her neck with his fingertips, avoiding her gaze, and he smirked gently. "Besides, that's your job."

He was skirting the subject with a simple deflection tactic, but she had other ways of forcing him to confront the issue at hand. Purposefully, Cassandra leaned over with her whole body until her face was just above his, urging Varric to turn his head upward. It took him a moment to comply, since she'd opted to drop the pointless act of covering herself with the sheet. As she brought herself close enough to press against him, he sighed out a hot breath on her skin, taking her tenderly in his arms and brushing his lips in a meandering exploration from the base of her neck to her collarbone.

"Varric," she whispered, closing her eyes as his beard stubble scratched lightly down her chest, "this is serious…"

"This is very serious," he agreed with a breathy sigh, rolling her to lie next to him as he moved to hover over her. Taking in the sight of her in the firelight, he reached a calloused hand out to trace the shadows playing off her many war scars. "…This is probably the most serious I've ever been in my life." Something in his touch sent small static shocks through her veins, a sudden rush of adrenaline robbing her of breath for a moment. The way he steadily moved to envelop her was a technique of deflection that she didn't have the will to resist for much longer.

Still, Cassandra had one last question for him, hoping to bring the dwarf as much closure on his past as he had given her. "Do you want me to tell you what happened… with Anders and…"

"No, Seeker… Don't tell me how it ends…" Varric shook his head, ginger strands cascading loosely over his forehead. Taking hold of the back of her thigh, he held her knee down to her chest and kissed her sweetly before her back arched in response to his entry. "Don't you _ever_ tell me…"

Urging her on quietly, he moved within her fluidly as he commanded her, "Promise me… Say it so I know you mean it…"

There in her bed, surrounded by their distant ghosts, she promised never to breathe another word to him about it, Maker help her.

And she never broke her oath.

**~oOo~**

"…Okay, say it slower. I'll get it this time."

" _Ugh_. Alright, _once_ more: Cassandr –"

"Well, I know _that_ one."

" _Cassandra_ … Allegra… Portia… Calogera… Filomena… Pentaghast."

Varric stared at the dilapidated ceiling, his arms crossed beneath his head on the pillow, squinting pensively as he attempted to memorise the exact order. "…This is why I give people nicknames," he grumbled, biting his lower lip in concentration before giving it another shot. "Cassandra Allegra… Calomena… Nope. I'll just stick with Seeker."

He caught the warrior's amused smirk before she rolled toward him and wrapped an arm around his middle, squeezing a little too tightly. She nearly knocked the air from his lungs with her strength. "I'm beginning to suspect you're fucking it up on purpose," Cassandra mumbled, yawning as she sat up on her stuffed mattress. "No one is that stupid. Not even you."

Joining her, he made his way to the side of the bed and kissed her shoulder before giving it a playful nibble. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I think I just figured out a great way to annoy you today."

" _Ugh_." Looking out her window absently, she stared for a moment in confusion and sighed, threatening absently, "If you cannot get it right before Redcliffe, I'll strand you in a rowboat on Lake Calenhad without a paddle. We'll soon find out which one of us is a stronger swimmer."

Varric's jaw locked suddenly against her shoulder, his blood all but freezing in his veins. The journey ahead had completely slipped his damned mind. Following her gaze, he finally registered the pale pink clouds in the lightening sky outside. Within the span of a second, his heart caught up to him with interest and his pulse began to race.

" _Shit_ ," he swore in a near panic, "what time is it?!" The stout man threw his legs under him, racing around the room as he gathered the scattered clothes and plunked down in the far chair, dressing like a maniac on fire. He'd stayed until dawn, and doubtless, someone would come to wake her at any moment. Plainly sensing his inner alarm bells for herself, Cassandra reached over and moved her book so she could open her war chest, retrieving clean clothes to wear beneath her armour.

"Listen, Seeker," he started to explain, pulling up his trousers and lacing the front as quickly as his fingers could manage, "I came to talk to you about a lot of things last night that I didn't get around to saying." Finding his socks and boots by the hearth, he grabbed them up and put them on hurriedly. "The reason we're going back to the Hinterlands is so we can shut down a red lyrium smuggling operation."

"We found the source?" she asked, her voice full of surprise as she pulled a long-sleeved wool travelling blouse over her head and slipped her arms in. "How did the Inquisitor track it down?"

Wincing, Varric bent down to buckle his boots. "Well, here's the thing: she didn't. Bianca did. That's why she showed up yesterday, to ask if I could get reinforcements for her, and Inquisitor Lavellan... provided them," he mumbled, gesturing between them back and forth a few times before continuing to dress.

Shocked, Cassandra slowly gathered her braid and set it around her crown, pulling out a pin from her nightstand to secure it in place. "I see," she muttered anxiously. "Will Bianca be joining us on this mission?"

Tucking the ends of his tunic into the hem of his trousers, Varric strapped on his belt and pulled it tight before reaching for his red overcoat. He draped it over his arm and stepped toward her apprehensively, not knowing if she was going to take this well. Going down on a knee in front of her, he unfolded her travel socks and gathered them up with his fingers, offering to help her put them on. "Yeah. She'll be, uh… waiting for us at Valammar's entrance. I meant to tell you, but I got side-tracked. Sorry."

Cassandra watched as he slid the end of each sock to her knees, his shoulders hunched as though bracing for an attack. Feeling merciful after their night together, she slipped on her armoured leggings and replied huskily, "Then we will finish this once and for all. We cannot allow Corypheus to get his hands on any more of that lyrium to use against us."

She slid her obsidian boots out from under her bed and put them on, studying him carefully. Nervousness taking hold, Varric straightened and slid his arms into the coat, flipping it over his shoulders. "I'm not gonna be able to tell you about this on the way, so I'll have to talk fast," he said, fastening the buttons with a practiced hand.

"Why can't you tell me later?"

"Because we're going with the Kid and the Inquisitor, and I don't want them getting… _inquisitive_ ," he answered ruefully. "Right, here's the deal, and you're not gonna like it: we can't tell them about us, yet – Hang on, let me finish," he added at the sight of her affronted expression. "It's not that I'm – Look, things are going great between us. You and I… This is definitely not…"

Varric saw the bitter look on her face mingle with confusion and hurt behind her eyes. Immediately, he stepped between the Seeker's knees and placed his hands on either side of her head to make her focus on only him, desperate not to blunder all they had built together. "Hey, I get that this isn't fair to you, Cassandra," he used her name in a show of sincerity. "Please trust me on this one. I've got a bad feeling about the whole venture, almost like we're walking into a trap. Whenever Bianca and I are seen within a mile of each other, the Guild retaliates against me. If they come after me for being near Bianca or shutting down their smuggling racket, I want to be damn sure they don't know anything about your ties to me. Especially the intimate ones. If they can find a way to hit me where it hurts, then there's a chance they might…"

The Seeker's eyes softened then, and she reached a hand up to grasp his own, squeezing it in support. "I understand," she acquiesced to his request, a small sigh escaping her. "My lips are sealed. Thank you for taking the time to explain it to me."

"Thanks for hearing me out," Varric replied, his bones flooded with relief. "Wow, I can't believe that actually worked! I was sure you were gonna hit me for – _Ow!_ Hey!" He rubbed his shoulder and traded with her a charming grin. "Okay, I had that coming… Ready?"

"I'll catch up in a minute," Cassandra reassured him, waving him away as she lifted her gleaming chest plate. "Ready my mount."

"You got it," the dwarf nodded, stepping quickly to make his quiet exit and placing his hand on the knob.

Suddenly faltering as he stared at the door, he shook his head decisively and walked back over to the woman, surprising her with a final parting kiss. Holding her face in his hands, Varric felt her arms wrap around his waist as Cassandra returned the passionate goodbye. _If only we had five more minutes_ , he thought, filled with dismay that he would not be able to touch her this way for at least another week.

As their lips parted, he stared into her sharp eyes for a brief moment, memorising her face if not her name. "I don't want to get all sappy on you, Seeker, but… _Bah_ , never mind."

"Yes?" She looked up at him hopefully. Varric had momentarily forgotten that she devoured all forms of sappiness, especially his particular brand. "Tell me… What is it?"

Smirking at the thought along with the eager glint in her eyes, he placed his lips against her forehead and embraced her sweetly, her head resting on his broad shoulder. "You don't know how much I wish I didn't have to leave this bed," he chuckled softly, "because I can't think of a better place to be right now than lying here with you."

She smiled at him. Maker, that was a sight worth fighting for.

Shrugging slightly as he coughed away the awkwardness, he admitted, "Eh, these things always sound less cheesy after I write them down and have more time to play with the wording, but you get the idea." Kissing her one last time, Varric stepped away and set off again, giving her a wink as he turned the doorknob. "I lo–"

The phrase jammed in his throat unexpectedly. It was on the tip of his tongue, damn it. _Three little words, Varric_. It should have been so easy, especially after last night.

Shooting her a sheepish glance, he felt the heat rise to his cheeks as she stared at him, her brown eyes glowing with anticipation. "I'll, uhm… meet you by the stables," he forced himself to say instead. Nodding awkwardly, he inwardly chastised himself before pulling the door wide and disappearing on the other side, unable to bring himself to see the reaction on her face before he closed it behind him.

Part of him had highly suspected from the moment he realised the time that the Inquisitor would be coming toward him at this very moment, catching him in the act of leaving the Seeker's room. He'd even mentally prepared a speech for that eventuality, ready to immediately claim that he'd gone inside because Cassandra wasn't responding to his knocks, but that she was packing up as they spoke.

In reality, though, the walkway was empty of all but the morning rays spilling onto the stone floor, the only sounds that of morning birds chirping their sing-song melodies.

Rolling his eyes, Varric let out a heavy sigh and tied his hair back, getting away from her door as fast as his stout legs could carry him without drawing attention. "Good," he muttered to himself, a smile in his voice, "would've been a dumb cliché, anyway."

**~oOo~**

Dorian nursed his third cup of tea that morning, sitting by the fire as he warmed his bones. The mornings were perhaps even more bracingly cold than the nights themselves, and the heat of the flames was far more welcoming than the stifling chill of the library at this hour. Besides, this position lent itself to some interesting advantages, like the ability to hear the light boot steps as they approached from the main entryway. After a moment, of course, they predictably stopped dead, presumably after noticing him, and that could mean only one thing.

"Ah, _there_ you are, Varric," the Tevinter greeted him cheerfully, the tea's copious amounts of caffeine assisting him in sounding completely alert. "Did you fall asleep behind the tavern dumpsters again? That would explain the odd stench wafting off you. Have a seat and we'll chat before you set off."

After a moment of surprise, Varric Tethras came into view to his right and sat down slowly in the new chair Lavellan had found after the dwarf had broken the other the previous afternoon. "You're up early, Sparkler," he commented dryly, his hands braced on his knees for support.

"Mmm, yes, Lavvy and I always have tea in the mornings when we're in Skyhold. She woke me early so as not to miss partaking in our ritual before she left." Dorian crossed a leg casually, resting his ankle comfortably over a knee. "I came back here last night to see if you wanted to join me for tea – the _other_ kind – and discuss what happened earlier, but to my shock and dismay, you'd vanished into thin air. You had me worried sick, like a mother hen searching for one of her lost chicks! I scoured the keep high and low, but couldn't locate you anywhere." Arching a knowing brow, he habitually stroked the corner of his moustache, giving the dwarf a side glance. "Did you at least eat something before you disappeared?"

"Oh. Must've slipped my mind," Varric replied all too innocently, much to Dorian's amusement. He sounded like he hadn't had a wink of sleep at all, the poor devil. "I had a few errands to run, that's all. Nothing to worry about. I'll grab something to eat on the way out."

"Well, those 'errands' certainly didn't pertain to your books. _Those_ you left open on the bloody table for everyone and their mother to have a nose through." The mage took great pleasure in watching the frantic astonishment hit the man, rising from the chair suddenly when he realised the table was empty of all ink, parchment, and records. "For someone who runs a spy network, I would have expected your work to be under perpetual lock and key. Not to worry, I saved your secrets from falling into the wrong hands," he reassured Varric after he straightened from looking under the table. "They're on a shelf in the library, keeping the droning works of Brother Genetivi company."

"Oh… Thanks," he stammered slightly, but Dorian took note of his unease at his own carelessness. "Guess I owe you… three."

" _Four_ , actually. You'll be eternally indebted to me, at this rate." Setting his teacup and saucer down on the table, he turned and walked to the mantelpiece, where he had laid out a familiar, deadly contraption. Hoisting the heavy thing up carefully, he walked it over to the dwarf, who stood in frank astonishment as he reached out and took Bianca in his waiting arms. "I _tried_ to return this to you before I went for my beauty sleep, but alas, your quarters were locked up tighter than your trade secrets should have been. Sera had _another_ go with it and narrowly missed Harding before Blackwall convinced her to have a drink and a card game with him and Bull, instead. He _said_ she claimed to be 'only flirting with the minx'."

Varric huffed out a laugh and smirked at that. At a higher angle, it was easier to see the bags of fatigue below the man's eyes. "Interesting approach," he muttered, fitting the holster to his back before strapping the elaborate crossbow to him properly, setting it back where it rightfully belonged.

Dorian nodded, retaking his seat and crossing the other leg for comfort's sake. "Especially if it works. You roguish archers _are_ rather turned on by near-death experiences. Twisted freaks of nature." Turning his body to reclaim his cooling tea, he took a cautious sip before adding, "I wouldn't keep Lavvy waiting if I were you; she's in a foul mood for having to leave her little _lethallin_ behind. In the meantime, her 'dreamy' boyfriend and I shall try tracking down that artefact you're after, but I make no guarantees. The records are slapdash at best, going back that far."

The fire crackled and sparked, a muffled bang knocking down the wood pile. He adored watching the flames work their mesmerising magic. Perhaps that's why he had chosen to perfect and utilise it for his own purposes in the first place. _Beautiful but dangerous. Much like myself_ , he thought fondly.

"Thanks again, Sparkler," Varric interrupted his musings, clearly on his way out the door again. "You're one of a kind."

Nodding, Dorian gave him a graceful wave, not taking his eyes away from the hearth as the footsteps headed away again. "Hurry back. You know I can't bear to be separated from you for too long. _Oh_ ," he added, raising his voice a touch as his words echoed through the empty chamber, "and _do_ say my farewells to your lady friend for me."

The footsteps paused as soon as he'd said that, and the Altus couldn't help but smile. "She's not here," Varric stated the obvious, confusion lacing his words. "Bianca left yesterday."

His smile grew to a sardonic grin then. "I wasn't speaking of _her_ , lover-boy… Enjoy your holiday. Tell me all about it when you return. And bring me back something pretty."

There was a long, awkward pause on the other end of the conversation before the footsteps resumed, the uncomfortable dwarf clearing his throat as he stepped out into the crisp, wintery morning air.

"I knew it. I'm _always_ right about these things," Dorian gloated to no one but the fire.

**~oOo~**

The horses were restless, chomping at their bits to get moving and warm themselves with a bit of exercise, but he was still waiting for everyone else to arrive. Luckily the Commander, the Spymaster, and the Ambassador had come along to assist in preparations and send them off. Cole held his friend against his chest, a gesture that she would have protested normally, but she liked him after all the fun they'd had playing together last night. He walked up to the group of advisers chatting amongst themselves, not wanting to interrupt their important, hushed talks, but they paused as they noticed his approach, and he froze, waiting for them to speak first. Could they see him, or was he mistaken?

"Good morning, young man," the Ambassador opened a conversation with a courteous smile. "How can I help you find your way around the keep today?"

Josephine didn't recognise him. She wore the smile of a kind stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. It didn't bother him, though; it was better for everyone this way. "Mouse says she wants to go with Nightingale," Cole translated for the cat cradled in his arms, looking at the redhead with piercing, wide blue eyes.

"Ah!" Leliana stepped over to him slowly, her eyes twin crescent moons as she took her hands from behind her back and moved to take his small friend. " _That_ is a welcome surprise! Come here, widdle smuffy-kins!"

The spirit leaned in close to her, causing the Orlesian to freeze in place as she stared at him warily. "She wants to play with your bird friends. Would that be okay?"

Her eyes darting to the deceptively innocent cat, the smile faded from her face as she took her hands away and once again clasped them in front of her, backing away slowly. "On second thought," she grimaced subtly, "I don't have much free time to devote to pet-sitting. Maybe one of you should take her."

Cole watched as Josephine shot the Commander what could only be described as a death glare, staring him down until the man took a cautionary step to his left, away from the glowering Antivan. "Ah…" Cullen stammered, rubbing the back of his reddening neck with a glove, the other raised in surrender, "Josephine, w-why don't you take this little terror to your office?"

Her charming smile returned genuinely. "Why, _thank_ you, Commander. How gracious of you to offer. I'd _love_ to."

"My pleasure," he grumbled with a smirk, crossing his arms over his chest and departing to see to the horses, though there was nothing more to do for them other than to stroke their manes and say goodbye.

Pleased with herself, Josephine stepped forward and took Mouse from Cole's waiting arms. As she scratched the place behind the cat's ears where she most loved to be petted, the spirit boy kicked at the mud sticking to his boots, suddenly acutely aware that Blackwall was not snoring in the hayloft behind him. "He's foraging," Cole said aloud unintentionally, his head cocking to the side as feelings not his own penetrated his spirit.

"I beg your pardon? Did you say something, my young friend?" Josephine asked curiously. The Inquisitor's Ambassador was such a nice lady, and Cole's heart sunk unexpectedly in dismay that she couldn't recall ever having seen his face before.

"He left early, foraging favourite flowers flourishing in the first hours. They're not as pretty as you, but they remind him of your fragrance. A delicate blossom in the snow, soft, sweet-smelling scents on the wind."

Her lovely green eyes met his icy blue stare, and he shied away from her, turning away suddenly. A minute after going quickly into the barn, he looked back to find her standing where he'd left her with Cullen, the two of them stroking Mouse and exchanging pleasantries and soft laughter. She couldn't remember that he'd even been there in the first place, not knowing how the cat had ended up in her arms. It was for the best.

"Hey, Kid. Ready to hit the road?"

Cole's spirit lightened at those gruff words, turning to find the dwarf snacking on a breakfast roll as he strapped a rucksack to his horse. Varric always remembered him no matter what, and that made him feel much better. He was glad they would be going on this journey together. It was nice to have a friend to talk to. "Yes. Can we play the game?"

"Sure, another thirty rounds of 'I Spy' wouldn't hurt anybody. Remember the rules from last time? You're not allowed pick things only _you_ can see. That's not how this game works."

"Okay, I can do that… No ghosts or wisps this time." Cole helped the dwarf by getting a step for him to climb, and Varric was then able to hook his foot into the stirrup to pull himself to a sitting position on the leather saddle, commenting quietly on the creepiness of what Cole had just uttered.

The Inquisitor and the Seeker arrived at the same time from different directions, and the spirit approached his own horse apprehensively. He didn't want to spook the animal, and luckily it only glanced at him and let out a great sigh as he patted his white, soft neck, climbing into his own saddle. The Inquisitor waved to Cole as she traded parting words of advice with her council, and Cassandra kept her head down, avoiding eye contact with not only him, but strangely Varric as well.

Like an ocean wave, the compassionate boy was rolling spiritually with a storm of emotions crashing around him. _Intrigue, hope, shyness, anxiety, lust, frustration, worry, desperation, confusion, anticipation, infatuation._ His eyes lost focus as he was battered with thoughts from either side, paralysed into a statuesque pose atop his mount. But one feeling, in particular, kept coming back to him, solidifying in his very core. He had to say it aloud. _Had_ to, or it wouldn't go away.

"Okay, I'll start," Varric interrupted his trance. "I spy with my little eye something… white."

Cassandra made a noise that sounded like a demon was trying to escape her throat, but she made no further objections to the game. Well, she didn't try to stop him, anyway.

"The _snow_ ," the Inquisitor scoffed in her saddle. "Come on, Varric, make it a _challenge,_ at least!"

"Guess again, Herald. I'm not gonna make it _that_ easy; give me _some_ credit!"

Cole looked around him suddenly, realising with a start that they had already set out. His horse had fallen in next to his friend's, and they'd by now reached the end of the stone bridge, beginning their long, slow trek down the mountain's wide trail. "She knows you lied," he blurted to the man next to him.

Varric's brows furrowed in concern and Cole watched as Cassandra's back stiffened just ahead of him. "Uh… About what, exactly?" The dwarf inquired quietly, biting his lip to stop himself from telling the spirit to keep his voice down.

Heeding his silent wish, Cole pulled the reins to his left to move his horse closer. "Victor – the man in your story," he replied only loud enough to be heard over the hooves shuffling through the snow. "And other dwarves. The weapons they use are big because _they're_ big, too. Not because they're sad that they're _not_ big. She knows you lied to her."

And thus followed the most prolonged, uncomfortable silence Cole had ever received after a cold reading. The air was highly charged ahead of him, and the back of the Seeker's neck was a bright, blushing red. Had he said something wrong? Cole didn't even truly understand what he was saying, but it clearly meant something to Cassandra.

" _Well_ ," Varric sighed out a strange laugh, taking a deep breath before shifting uneasily, "not even half an hour into this damn trip, and it's off to a _great_ start, _isn't_ it, Seeker?"

Leaving the confusing thoughts behind him to bury themselves in the snow, Cole scanned the horizon before them and pointed far ahead to his right. "I spied it. It's a bunny."

"Right, Kid, good eye," Varric grinned, pleased with himself for some unknown reason. "Your turn."

"I spy with my little eye something… real."

"Yikes. This is gonna be a long week."


	18. Caste Aside

A day and a half. Maker preserve her, a day and a half.

Although it was the fastest they'd ever covered that distance due to the small size of the party and being on horseback, there was only so much "I Spy" Cassandra could take – and that was decidedly nowhere _near_ over two hundred and twenty rounds. Just when she thought she would surely go mad, they had at last reached the bustling village of Redcliffe, turning west to leave their mounts in the hands of Master Dennet's daughter at the farmstead. After their horses were settled in and the four began to move south again, the exasperating game was mercifully abandoned in favour of blissful silence, lest they attract the attention of the local wildlife – namely, those damnable great bears.

They had traversed hillsides, cut through grasslands, hiked up steep inclines, and finally stocked up at the camp nearest the entrance to the thaig. Rams leapt off and scattered upon their approach to the secluded, elevated lake, and they each took note of Blackwall's untouched home on the other side of the still waters. He'd likely be relieved to learn that it had not burned to the ground in his absence.

As they approached the entry to the ancient city, though, two Carta thugs sprang into action without hesitating to inquire after identities. To Cassandra, it felt deeply as though the dwarves had known they were coming, which did not bode well for all their attempts at subtlety on their travels. Perhaps it had been careless of them to stop for supplies at the top of Gherlen's Pass, where the surface traders at the stone gates of the Kingdom of Orzimmar either knew of or were themselves smuggler contacts, who may have tipped off the crime lords.

After the bowmen were neatly disposed of, Varric had frantically searched the narrow path behind the waterfall for clues but came up empty-handed. He looked concerned to say the least, and she knew in her gut he was worried that Bianca had been greeted similarly upon arrival, though might not have fared as well on her own. Realising that there was no evidence of any grim fate having been met (besides those of the guards), he had turned to the Inquisitor, a gloved hand rubbing at his jaw stubble as he deduced contemplatively that his "friend" must be late.

But that was back at midday. It was now nearing nightfall, and there was still no sign of her.

They had done everything they could rightfully imagine to pass the time waiting for Bianca. Most satisfyingly, she'd had time to read a few chapters of a book Lavellan had brought along, while Varric and Cole spent their afternoon down by Blackwall's old cottage skipping rocks on Lake Luthias' surface together, the dwarf drinking away his anxieties from a hip flask. At first, Varric had considered himself the boy's tutor, claiming to have been born with the innate expertise needed for choosing the best stones. That is, until Cole had actually skipped a flat rock so far beyond Varric's record that it had glided perfectly to the opposite shore at the widest point, landing with a _clunk!_ amongst the scattered rocks near the tall grass. She had to admit, the odd spirit had a fairly good arm. Throwing his hands up with a grin and content in his glorious defeat, Varric had made his way back to the women, who sat beside one another in the shade whilst reading the book jointly between their laps.

The thunderous roar of the waterfall easily overpowered anything Varric could have possibly heard around him, but the cool mist emanating from that area must have made his momentary deafness worth every second spent standing precariously atop the slick rocks. Getting even the slightest relief after yet another tense hour's long wait was enough of an excuse to risk his life, apparently. Stray rays from the waning sun penetrated the cascading water, the humid air casting small rainbows every which way, creating a private dance of colour just for them.

Breathing in the refreshing mist one last time, he sighed heavily and watched his footing as he carefully backed away from the edge and planted his feet safely on solid ground. Varric took in the scenery around him, gloved thumbs hooked through his belt loops as he sauntered over to the two engrossed readers, but he immediately grew suspicious when Cassandra hid the book from view at noticing his stare. He opened his mouth, most likely to inquire about their strange behaviour, but was interrupted by a low, melodic tune humming to his right as the spirit boy approached.

"Why would he rather be a hammer than a nail?" Cole pondered to himself before sitting down next to the welcoming elf. "The hammer has to _hit_ the nail… I would rather be me. It's less confusing that way."

Having thoroughly mystified everyone, the Seeker voiced their puzzlement with the kind of guttural scoff only a true-born Nevarran could affect. " _Less_ confusing? For _you_ , maybe."

Raising his obscured eyes to blindly meet her own, Cole nodded slowly, easily mistaking her dismissiveness for an invitation to discuss his musings further. "Yes. Would you rather be the hammer, Cassandra? Like the man in the song?"

The warrior looked to Lavellan to control her pet, but the elf just stared openly at her, mirroring Cole's unabashed curiosity. Sitting back wearily against the rocky cliff face, she decided to go along with the odd exchange to humour herself for a time, despite not being familiar with the song to which he referred. "I suppose I would… If it were a simple choice between the two positions, I'd rather be a hammer than a nail. Without a doubt."

The boy shook his head in alarm. "But then who would be the nail? You would have to hit them!"

Varric failed miserably to hold back a laugh at that, probably due to the startled look Cole affected, as if he couldn't imagine the Seeker hitting _anyone_ unprovoked. Rightly enough, Varric didn't have to imagine at all, but he quickly hushed his chuckling at her pointed scowl, downing another swig of liquid fire from his silverite flask.

"Not necessarily," she rationalised to the spirit thoughtfully, turning her attention away from the tipsy dwarf standing before her. "A hammer is a tool, and a nail's basic function is to secure things together. So, as a hammer, I would do what I was designed for to ensure… structural integrity." She was oddly surprised at her own statement, her eyes rolling slightly at her willingness to participate in Cole's absurd hypotheticals. At least it served as a vague metaphor for her own role in the Inquisition.

"Oh," Cole nodded, pulling a tuft of grass from the ground by the roots, "I like that better… But what happens when the hammer runs out of nails?"

Sighing, Cassandra laid her head back against the stone and muttered, "A question for the Ages, Cole."

Her chin held high, the Inquisitor grinned at the warrior and nodded once in genuine approval. "You make a _good_ hammer, Cassandra."

She turned her eyes away from the Dalish, brushing off the irrational conversation in favour of the book they had been perusing.

One glance at the cover, though, and the dwarf immediately stepped forward, deftly snatching it from her hands and pulling it to him faster than she could lunge to take it back. "Where in the Void did you get this?!" Thumbing through the pages nimbly, his hoarse voice cracked with indignation at the assaulting words within its pages. "I thought Ruffles had every damned copy incinerated!"

Well, there went her plans for the evening. Varric would never give it back now.

Inquisitor Lavellan got to her feet and stretched her back, stepping to Varric's side and reading over his low shoulder. "Not _every_ copy. I asked Josephine to put one back for me so I could see what all the fuss was about. _Oh_ ," she smiled deviously, "find the part where the captain shouts, ' _This is Kirkwall, bitches!'_ Creators, Solas shuddered so violently when I read that to him!"

Thoroughly outraged, Varric stalked over to the waterfall without a second thought and tossed the gods-forsaken thing into the pouring waters, the leather-bound book disappearing beneath the whitewash at the bottom.

" _Hey_! That was the last copy!" Crossing her arms over her chest firmly, Lavellan appeared only partially affronted that he had just destroyed her property. The rest of her demeanour screamed of her amusement at his cross behaviour. "Not that it's _any_ of your business," she explained with a wry smirk, "but I was enjoying it ironically."

Varric washed his hands of it all, walking to the shaded rock face and leaning against its surface as he adjusted the gloves around his wrists. "It's literally impossible to enjoy _Hard in Hightown Three_ , end of story. 'The Re-punchening,'" he shook his head in disgust at the title. "Andraste's Silk Slippers, I hope you didn't pay for that travesty, Inquisitor. If you did – even half a copper's worth – I'm sorry to say you got swindled."

" _Ugh_ ," Cassandra grumbled, rising to her feet and losing patience in the waning daylight. "I grow tired of waiting, Inquisitor. We need to devise a plan: either we rest for the night back at camp and find Bianca in the morning, or conclude our business and worry about her location later."

Clearly agreeing with the warrior's eagerness to get moving, Lavellan's shoulders stiffened as she shot a glance to the boy seated against the wall. "Cole, can you tell whether Bianca is nearby? How much longer will she be, or should we just go in?"

He lowered his head to his lap for a moment in thought, though he continued to decorate his black leather boots with uprooted grass in a childlike manner. "She's close," he answered distantly, brushing moist soil off the dirty fingertips protruding from his cut gloves. "If we go in, she will find us."

"Then it's settled then," Cassandra's steely voice rang out over the water as she drew her longsword. "Let us charge in and get the job done. She can catch up with us in due time if she so wishes. I need to feel like something is being accomplished instead of wasting the rest of the day."

Varric stole a glance toward the two lifeless bodies that he had tactfully dragged out of sight when they'd first arrived. Many more Carta agents would be waiting for them within Valammar's ancient walls, but that couldn't have been what caused the worry line to appear between his brows. No, it must have been due to the realisation that, finally, they would be walking into the thaig as one, bringing to fruition the moment he'd been dreading since Bianca had left Skyhold's walls. But this was going to happen inevitably, anyway. At least he wouldn't have to worry about his erstwhile lover discovering the truth.

All that was left for them now was to complete the task of shutting down Corypheus' endless supply of red lyrium, and damn the consequences.

"Right," he gulped quietly, narrowing his honeyed eyes in a slight grimace, "no time like the present." She watched as Varric helped Cole to his feet and then retrieved Bianca from her holster. He then fell in beside her as they walked side by side to a simple wooden door, which he had been eyeing anxiously since noon, and her system flooded with practically enough adrenaline to reanimate a corpse. _Uncle Vestalus would be proud_ , she thought cynically.

Cassandra gripped the leather hilt and raised her sword defensively, flanking the doorway with Varric as he clicked off Bianca's safety. Her heart beat like a war drum as Lavellan stepped forward, opening the creaking door and releasing a heavy wall of eerie, dead air, chilling their collective bones within seconds.

The Herald checked to be sure that Cole was indeed at her back, then glanced at both of them in turn, breathing shallowly and appearing somewhat tense. "Just so you know, we Dalish are natural forest dwellers; highly anti-cave. For one, there aren't any trees in caves, and that's just flat-out wrong… So this, for me and my kin, pretty much goes against everything pure and good in this world."

Cassandra stole a glance at Varric as he huffed out the remnants of a sobered laugh. "As your humble dwarven servant, Inquisitor, let me just say that I couldn't agree more." He sighed out his own trepidation, trading one last ominous look with the Seeker, his expression one of doubt that they would make it out of this unscathed. "Ready or not…"

"…Here we come," Lavellan muttered under another shallow breath. Using her staff as a weak source of light, she walked slowly into the depths of the unnervingly silent tunnel, her friends following one by one, nothing but darkness and cobwebs ahead of them.

"…Stop me if you've heard this one: a nervous elf, a loyal human, a handsome dwarf, and a creepy spirit walk into a thaig…"

"…I'm not 'creepy'… Am I creepy, Cassandra?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

**~oOo~**

The place was dead, not to mention downright disturbing. Silent as the grave, and dark as the interior of a nug's backside – and just as fragrant, now that he thought about it. It had become glaringly apparent after ten minutes of following the Inquisitor's faintly glowing rune that shop was closed up for the night; no obvious sounds of mining to be heard, no voices carrying through the vast expanse, no activity of any kind. This whole thing might be easier than he'd first presumed, but saying it aloud was the sort of stupidity that jinxed the hell out of these situations.

When the narrow cave widened considerably to reveal the unmistakable dwarven architecture in the distance, light mercifully emitting from sporadic fire sconces along the way, Varric and the Inquisitor holstered their weapons, their guts loosening tolerably. They couldn't make out anyone around whatsoever, which meant they could all lower their guards for now. Maybe they'd be able to descend to the lower levels and block access to the Deep Roads without running into a single–

"Finally! I started to think you weren't coming!"

He'd nearly leapt clean out of his own skin at her voice, the first thing any of them had heard since the laughter had died down after his hilarious joke. Unbelievably, Bianca was now standing before them and had in all likelihood been inside the damned cave this whole time. Inquisitor Lavellan glanced down at him in shock, and he heard the Seeker whisper noisily to the Kid, "You could have _told_ us she was already here."

Ignoring the spirit's defensive response, Varric met the eyes of his past – and sometimes present – lover. "Nobody said you had to hang out in the creepy cave while you waited," he commented with slight annoyance, just as perturbed as everyone else that they'd gone the entire day wondering whether or not she was still alive only to find her safe and sound all along.

"Well, I did wait, so let's make this quick," she replied, getting right down to business. Stepping toward their leader, Bianca lowered her voice conspiratorially. "These idiots are carrying the red lyrium out in unprotected containers. We don't want to stick around long enough for it to start 'talking' to us."

Inquisitive as always, Lavellan delved deep for more information, questioning studiously, "Why would the containers need to be protected?"

Bianca hurriedly provided an explanation. "Lyrium is incredibly dangerous in its raw form. It can poison or kill _dwarves_ , and we're resistant to it. Sometimes it just explodes! No warning."

Varric shrugged and looked up to meet the elf's concerned, wide eyes. "Basically, only crazy people mine lyrium."

"The Mining Caste doesn't just sling it into a bucket," Bianca went on, shaking her head apprehensively. "It's carried in special containers that keep it under control. And that's normal lyrium. The red stuff is worse. I wouldn't be surprised if most of their miners die just digging it up."

Cassandra stepped forward, now just behind Varric as she glared with frank suspicion, as usual. "You seem to know more about the effects of red lyrium than most."

The dwarven woman turned her eyes to the Seeker in surprise, not knowing what to make of the human female butting into their conversation. " _Varric_ told me plenty about what it did to him," she said, careful to say his name with enough force to imply that the two were extremely close. " _And_ his brother."

The Seeker didn't move from her new spot at his back, and he felt the uneasiness of the situation rise exponentially as he imagined Cassandra trading looks that could kill with Bianca. His restlessness was all but confirmed when he looked up to find her staring just above him, thin brows knitting with aversion and defiance. Why was the fantasy of two women fighting over him always far better than the reality of it?

"How did you find this operation in the first place?" Lavellan cut through the awkwardness as she ignored their silent exchange in favour of getting to the truth. "There must be hundreds of Deep Roads entrances."

Shaking her head again, Bianca turned her attention back to the Inquisitor. "I've used this entrance in the past. Varric's not the only surface dwarf to explore the Deep Roads." She shot another glance at Cassandra shadily. "Though I've got to admit, I was pretty surprised when I came here and found it full of humans."

"If you're coming with us, I hope you can handle a fight," the elf sighed, holding her staff before her in preparation to set off again.

Varric observed as Bianca shifted her weight to a hip, and knew instantly that sarcasm was abound. " _No_ , I thought I'd cower helplessly while you do all the work."

He traded a smirk with the Inquisitor and shrugged lamely. "She's a decent shot," he stated evenly, not wanting things to get uglier than they already had.

Now it was Varric's turn to be on the receiving end of her attitude, though. "'Decent'?" Bianca hissed, arching a single brow in his direction.

Resisting the urge to rub at the knotting muscle on the back of his neck, he sent her a charming smile instead, hoping to take the edge off. "You want me to admit you're better than me in front of the Inquisitor?"

At last, her lip turned up slightly, and the tension flooded out of him with that sole expression of goodwill. She was just having a little fun at his expense, as always. Well, that was a relief, at least…

"Let's not waste any more time, shall we?"

**~oOo~**

"Dread Wolf take this whole place… _Fenedhis,_ even the air down here gives me the shakes…"

Cassandra stepped forward to take point on the path to the bridge, which was covered in scattered chunks of masonry that had given way over the Ages. Mistrustful by nature and by trade, the Seeker was better suited to handle a possible ambush than the skittish elf, whom the warrior urged to the back of the group so she would be better protected by a wall of fiercely devoted cohorts.

As it turned out, her suspicions on the manner of the attack were indeed correct. After rounding a massive stone battle hammer in the middle of the access bridge that had fallen from a gigantic statue sometime in the distant past, surely enough she came face to face with a dwarven bowman. Instantly, he let out a shout of alarm that forewarned a pair of Carta agents flanking the opposite end of the bridge.

Though Lavellan had been startled by this, she still possessed a sound enough mind to drape them in a protective barrier before assaulting the agents firing from the far end, Varric and Bianca aiding her with arrows and bolts as they rolled and dodged incoming projectiles by using the stonework as cover. Her attention locked on the enemy before her, Cassandra slashed violently at the agile man in an attempt to quickly remove his head from his shoulders, shielding herself just in time to avoid an arrow aimed precisely at her neck. Cole appeared from a dark cloud just behind her opponent and soundlessly stabbed the man at a weak point in his armour below the ribcage, his curved blade pointing up into vital organs. Appropriately, the dwarf dropped like a stone, and Cassandra raced down the length of the bridge toward the remaining agents.

One of them pulled a great horn from his back and blew out a low, teeth-rattling note that was clearly meant to alarm the thaig to invaders. Incensed that their cover had been so swiftly blown, so to speak, her intimidating battle cry nearly sent them running for cover, but they fought to their deaths bravely – or stupidly, depending on how one chose to look at it. Not even breaking a sweat in the confrontation, she pulled her sword free from the last man's belly, taking a rag from her belt and wiping the steel of dark, hot blood.

"I could not kill him before he sounded the alarm. There will be no avoiding them now," she supposed regretfully as the others walked to her end of the bridge.

"That's okay," the Inquisitor sighed, sounding far less nervy than before. Perhaps it was the silence that had gotten to her and, now that things were picking up to the point that they knew what would surely lie ahead, the Dalish felt more comfortable. Some people simply did better in situations when they knew what was coming next, and the Herald was one of them.

"Kid, can you sense any darkspawn in here?" Varric asked quietly, his crossbow still in his arms as if bracing for another attack.

"No," the pale boy answered him with a shake of his large hat.

Sighing again with relief, Lavellan put away her staff. "Good. That could have been worse. At least there's no darkspawn."

Freezing in place suddenly, Cole stammered, "I-I didn't say that." Then, at the Inquisitor's shocked glance, the spirit stepped back a pace warily. "Varric asked if I could _sense_ the darkspawn, but… I-I can't sense them!"

Utterly taken aback by this stunning admission, the elf exclaimed, "I thought you _could!_ That's why I brought you along!"

Cassandra, Varric, and Bianca turned to face him, and Cole wrung his hands nervously, now totally in the spotlight. "I'm sorry, I… They feel like… nothing. I can feel people – all kinds of people. Their hurt calls out, and I hear it like a song inside me. But darkspawn aren't people, so they don't hurt. Don't feel. Don't think. It's not the same…"

"Shit, that's creepy," Varric whispered, his eyes shifting to and fro warily at the shadows around them.

"So there's a possibility of darkspawn," Bianca concluded for everyone, eyeing the strange young man with cautious aversion. "And knowing how deep the Miner Caste usually digs, there's a good chance of encountering at least some along the way."

"I don't know," Cole admitted sheepishly, crossing his arms over his chest for some semblance of protection. "I've tried to touch them before, but I've never been able to. They are… different from what I'm used to."

" _Great_. We're blind," Lavellan lamented, beginning to pace the width of the bridge. "It's dark down here, and we're _blind_."

Cassandra was surprised by her mannerisms. It seemed as if the Inquisitor had not been kidding when she had said that going underground was deeply unnatural to her… Was she becoming claustrophobic down here? Or was she beginning to hear the maddening echoes of red lyrium in her blood? That was not a pleasant idea whatsoever. "We would be just as blind with or without Cole," the Seeker reminded her, hoping the hardness in her voice would steel Lavellan a bit more.

"Look, don't freak out yet," Varric stepped in with his attempt at reassurance. "Take a minute to check for any loot in these crates or something. I'll scout ahead with the Kid and thin their numbers if we find anything."

Bianca shot her old flame a look that spoke volumes. It was clear that she wanted to go with him as well, but he shook his head almost imperceptibly. Perhaps the woman wanted to spend some time alone with him, or perhaps she disliked the idea of Varric leaving her on her own. Either way, she was not keen on having him split off from the group, but he would not tolerate any sentimental objections.

Forcing herself to stand still, Lavellan took a set of five deep breaths and let them all out slowly, staring over the side of the bridge into the bottomless chasm below as she willed herself slowly to calm down. "Okay," she agreed after a time. "But not too far, boys – and you _will_ come back to report before trying to engage the enemy alone."

"Don't worry, we'll be fine," he reassured her. "There's all sorts of old dwarven traps in here. Bianca knows how to disarm them. Stick close to her." As he walked up the flight of stairs to the first level, keeping as much to the shadows as possible, Cole nodded at the Inquisitor and whispered something only she had heard. His wicked daggers drawn, one serrated blade in each hand, the spirit suddenly vanished in the blink of an eye, leaving nothing in his wake but a void where he had just been.

Having watched the unsettling disappearing act, Bianca shuddered and recoiled slightly, walking to the Inquisitor's side. "Your little friend makes my skin crawl. No offence."

"He's alright. Just a helpful spirit from the Fade," Lavellan explained, her voice ten times calmer than it had been nearly all day. Whatever Cole had said had worked wonders. "It's a long story… I just hope they'll be alright."

Cassandra also shared her sentiment but resolved herself to silence so as not to sound overly concerned and invite speculation her way. Instead, she bent to check the dead for weapons and valuables, turning them over to rifle through their pockets and finding trinkets of select medallions, paragon carvings, and various coins.

"Who, Varric? He'll be fine _._ He's been through worse than this," the dwarf eased their worries readily, not questioning his skills for a minute. "One time, some hard-ass bitch kidnapped him for questioning and held him ransom for weeks," she added as an aside. "Trust me, if he got away from her, he can get away from anyone."

" _Ugh_ , please," Cassandra scoffed under her breath, standing to her full height and resting a hand on the pommel of her sword. "I don't know what Varric told you, but he was never ransomed."

Turning toward her then, Bianca gave the human an appraising frown that went from head to toe and back again. "That so?" She challenged, her soft voice taking on a doubtful tone, "And just how the hell would you know anything about that?"

Lavellan shook her head vigorously from behind the dwarf, but stopped abruptly as soon as Bianca craned her neck to see what the elf was doing. Turning back to face Cassandra, she crossed her short arms over her chest and waited, her lips pursed in unconcealed distaste.

"Because I _am_ the bitch you speak of," she revealed, thus causing Lavellan to throw her head back and walk away, swearing quietly to her various Gods. "Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, at your service."

Whatever reaction she had expected from the woman wasn't the one she received. Ms Davri seemed, if anything, summarily impressed by her blunt admission. "…Well, well," she nodded appreciatively, a strange, unfocused half-smile gracing her soft pink lips. "That's a twist worthy of one of his books… Maybe that's why he stuck around."

In an instant, the Inquisitor's hand went to her back and she drew out her staff in one fell swoop, crouching as she cast another ward around the three. "Did you hear that?" She barely breathed, her keen elven eyes trained on the dark corridor ahead of them. "There's something down there…"

**~oOo~**

_The handsome rogue became one with the darkness. It called him home and welcomed him like a faithful son, embracing him close and providing the perfect shelter. Wrongdoers were afoot, but they'd never see him coming before even detecting the flick of release from his trusty crossbow, the only girl he'd ever brought home to meet the parents._

Varric continued his inner monologue as he passed down the walkway, hunched down below the stone railing for better concealment. Cole should have been with him, and probably was in one form or another come to think of it, but he was out of sight, and therefore out of mind – as much as someone like the Kid _could_ be out of the inside of his mind, that is.

_There was nothing but silence behind the second door to the left, which disappointed his lovely crossbow, but the promise of blood kept her trigger from trembling. He smiled dashingly at her in the shadows. Bianca and he had been through a lot together._

Shit. He probably shouldn't have thought that last bit, because now his thoughts were totally consumed by the real Bianca. It was a good thing she'd stayed behind; two Biancas in tow would have just made things confusing. Plus, he was betting she wouldn't be able to keep from asking about the Seeker, and the silence now would have been impossible to maintain.

She was going to figure this out just by the guilty, betraying look in his eye. Yeah, Cassandra wouldn't outright give anything away, since she was a zealous woman of her word, but Bianca had known him for too many years not to suspect something was screwy with him. Just as it was easy for him to tell when she was keeping something hidden, she was perfectly capable of doing the same right back… Which was why he had elected to put a little distance between them until he could figure out what to do about the whole damned situation.

He opened the door absently, lost in his own troublesome thoughts –

To a room full of Carta agents staring back at him, their ears having been pressed to the stone. "Whoops."

Their leader stood up confrontationally, his angry red face matching the braided beard hanging down from it. "What the sodding hell are you doing out there?! We're under attack, nug nuts!"

 _His name was Redbeard,_ Varric's inner monologue once again took over, _and he was the wickedest of them all, the orchestrator of crimes so unspeakable that I'd rather not utter them in good company. Let's just say if anyone was worthy of a face-to-face with Bianca, it was him. He'd evaded justice for far too long._

Varric arched a wry brow and strode in through the half-dozen dwarves as though he belonged there. "Cool your forge fires. I just came to say we killed those pathetic intruders, so there's no need to keep hiding like children. Get a grip."

The men let out a collective sigh and sheathed their heavy weaponry. "You could've just said that before _barging_ in," one of them grumbled in annoyance. "Try knocking next time or your luck's gonna run out. And you'd fucking _deserve_ it."

"Not if I shoot you first," he grinned, winking at them as he held out Bianca for inspection. "Check out what that luckless bastard had on him."

The youngest of them stepped forward with a low whistle of appreciation. "What a beast," he marvelled, running his hand along her gleaming stock. "We could replicate that and put it on the market, or sell it for a sodding fortune. Is it automatic? How many RPMs do you think it gets?"

Shrugging, Varric sold his tale like a trueborn storyteller. "I don't know, probably a hell of a lot! He managed to get off quite a few rounds before we took him down. Here," he offered, holding her away from himself, "wanna try it on for size?"

One of the more hesitant of the group made a noise of dissent. "The boss'll probably lose his shit if we tinker with that before he has a chance to look at it good and proper."

"Well, maybe I'll bring it to him, too. Or maybe I'll just use it to take him out and steal his illustrious throne." Jokingly, he lifted Bianca as if preparing to fire and aimed it at the wary axeman, miming being knocked back by recoil as he affected an imaginary shot to the face.

The men laughed at their surly companion's expense for a time as he glowered, but their chuckling fell eerily silent as they gradually stilled to a dead halt around Varric. Apprehensive enough as it was, he was all out of ideas on how to keep his ruse going, but was utterly flummoxed by the manner in which they stared at nothing in particular, their eyes glazing over as if lost in deep thought, or even a trance.

It all became clear, though, as the man in the back suddenly began to pour blood from the mouth, staining his great beard as it glistened with precious life, flowing out of him like a broken bottle of mulled wine. This was followed by the next man's neck splitting for seemingly no reason, muscle and vessels gruesomely exposed as arterial spray doused the agents before him. Each man had no reaction at all to this horror, save for the obvious hitting of the knees and keeling over in a pool of their own spilt lives.

Varric's mouth hung open as the next one succumbed, and the next one, and the next one after that, all dropping with ease around him one by one until only "Redbeard" was left standing in a deep daze. It was then that the spirit boy appeared beside the leader, blades black and dripping crimson from the wasted men. He stood over the bodies of the fallen and stared intensely at the last man, hair obscuring the deadened look in his eye.

The Carta agent blinked repeatedly in rapid succession a few times as Cole released him, the world coming back into focus around him, and he jumped in terror at what his eyes were witnessing. "What the fuck?!" He cried out, fear giving way to fury as he turned on his fellow dwarf.

Varric grinned fiendishly. " _Bianca says hello_ ," he whispered, and fired a bolt straight through Redbeard's forehead at point blank.

"Dead," the Kid said needlessly as they watched the last man fall noisily to the ground in a pile. While Varric fought the goosebumps prickling over his arms, Cole walked over and stood beside him so innocently that the contrast threatened to make the man shudder. "Why did you make up terrible stories about him?"

Varric swallowed to counteract the dryness in his throat. "So I can sleep at night, Kid," he answered gravely, going to one knee habitually and searching for loot on the bodies.

"But they weren't true," Cole shook his head in confusion. "You made them up."

"Well, I wasn't gonna ask whether or not he had kids at home. That just… makes it harder to pull the trigger. Anyway, come on. Let's head back."

**~oOo~**

The Inquisitor was faring much better after they had managed to take down the straggling darkspawn on their own, which put Cassandra's worries for her aside. Though the Dalish had likely seen a number of new things since leaving her clan for the Conclave, as they all had, her aversions to being underground were wholly founded. In Cassandra's experience, nothing good had ever come of delving deep into dwarven ruins thus far. Hopefully that all would change tonight.

Bianca had once again given out needless warnings to them not to touch the tainted, black blood or risk contracting the Blight, and the Seeker had silently rolled her eyes out of view. That woman liked to assume she was the authority on everything down here and treated them both like simpletons. Luckily, Inquisitor Lavellan had sarcastically commented that she had no intention of coating her face in her enemies' blood as the rumours of her people espoused, and they again moved on.

It wasn't long before they ran into Varric and Cole, both of whom walked out of a large room together and nodded in greeting. Cole looked just the same as he always did, but Varric appeared spooked, his skin markedly paler than when they'd last seen one another.

His eyes momentarily unguarded, Varric shot a concerned glance in her direction, clearly observing the shoulder she cradled somewhat as they approached and reacting with palpable dread. She'd been struck by a blow to that side with a sinister-looking hammer, but it was nothing she couldn't withstand after a draught of healing potion. Subtly waving him off with a shake of her head, she stole a glance to her right to check that the Herald had not seen her gesture of silent reassurance, and was relieved to find her quietly strategizing with Cole.

But Bianca had witnessed the fleeting exchange without distraction. Damn him, if Varric was not more cautious, he was going to reveal himself, and it would be by no fault of her own.

She tried to avert her eyes and act as though nothing of note had passed between them, but Bianca was now staring at them in stunned disbelief. Though Varric caught her frank gaze and gave the dwarf a charming wink, her features only shifted to those of sardonic amusement. Bianca was on to him; it was plain to see, even though he bluffed his way past the pivotal moment and pressed onward, placing himself strategically at the forefront to hide his treacherous face. Whatever she was calculating in that head of hers, Bianca kept silent for now.

Maker guide them swiftly toward their goal… The sooner they shut down Corypheus' operation and reached the surface again, the better.

**~oOo~**

"Darkspawn," Cole whispered to them as the horde came into view before they could descend the stairs. Well, at least he had warned them of the creatures in _some_ way.

Varric prepped Bianca and held her as he took steady aim at the Hurlock Alpha. "We may be too close to the surface for these to count as 'Deep Roads' – but did I mention I _hate_ the Deep Roads?" He pulled the trigger, landing a critical blow, and the darkspawn turned as one, their purpose singular and menacing.

Ms Davri and the Inquisitor joined him in the ranged attack as Cassandra and Cole charged down the stone steps at full speed, their forward momentum aiding them in planting their blades deep. One of the creatures froze solid with Lavellan's spell, and the Seeker slammed her shield against its chest, shattering it like an ice sculpture at an Orlesian banquet. She pivoted nimbly and took out another as it screeched in her face, burying her gleaming blade handily in the thing's nightmarish maw, cutting off the unearthly sound. Cole focused on the Alpha, which was still on its feet despite being a walking pin cushion at this point, and sliced the back of its knees so it dropped low enough for him to saw the head from its massive body as it struggled to no avail.

The others walked down the stairs companionably as she stood next to Cole gasping for air for a moment, and their words slowly registered past the ringing of bloodlust in her ears.

"…had me worried, you know."

"What did I do now?"

"That letter you sent me about the red lyrium was the first I'd heard from you since the Chantry explosion."

Varric shot another glance toward the Seeker, the tragic event in his hometown forever intertwined in his memory with their first encounter, which was not the most common of circumstances for two lovers to have met. "Had it been that long?" He thought aloud, his gravelly voice catching in his throat nervously.

They reached the bottom of the staircase, and she practically glared at him then as she turned to face him. "Seriously, if you'd died in that mess, I'd have come back to Kirkwall and dug you up just to kick your ass."

Smirking affectionately, he retorted, "What would you do if I'd been cremated?"

She mirrored the expression in a manner that showcased their long friendship for all. "Kicked your _ashes_ , of course," she remarked matter-of-factly.

" _Ugh_ ," Cassandra grunted bodily, livid at the terrible pun her ears had just been made to suffer through.

Bianca caught her displeasure and the smirk on her soft lips broadened to a wide smile. Apparently, she was taking no small amount of joy from causing the Seeker such mental anguish, and Cassandra allowed her the faintest of victories. The two women were making it damn clear to one another that they profusely loathed each other's company. She felt better in that knowledge, at least; with all these secrets, it was pleasant to have a healthy dose of stark honesty, however wordless it may have been.

The dwarven woman stepped lightly to a locked door and bent to inspect the key mechanism, which appeared to be remarkably complicated. She noted that Iron Bull had said they had not breached this door on their visit to the thaig many months before, as Sera had been unable to pick it at the time.

"I built these doors," Bianca clarified as she jiggered with the contraption, ostensibly answering Cassandra's musings. "They probably shut this one from the other side when they heard the ruckus we were making." The door clicked, and she pushed it open effortlessly with a smile. "Ta-da!"

"You've been here often enough to renovate the cave?" Lavellan asked, fair brows shooting up on her patterned forehead.

"You already know I've used this entrance in the past," she replied with a humble shrug. "I don't know if Varric's told you, but the Merchant's Guild is cutthroat. _Literally_. I built the doors to keep rivals from following me down here and arranging 'accidents.'"

Though Cassandra ignored this from her place beside Cole, the Inquisitor astonishingly enough seemed to be quite taken with the woman and her keen abilities. "Admit it, you've been waiting to do that since we arrived," she chortled, outwardly impressed.

"Of course I was," Bianca admitted, gesturing her inside. "After you."

As they passed through the threshold one by one, Varric had a look around the expansive room and thought to make light conversation with her to pass the time. "How is whatshisname?" He wondered aloud, Cassandra practically on his heels as he strolled aside Bianca.

"Bogdan?" She spoke his name needlessly. The warrior was certain Varric knew what her husband's name was, so she must have said it for those listening in, practically proud that she could say it with ease, yet he could not bring himself to. "He's in Nevarra right now, selling my machine to wealthy landowners… Maybe you know them."

Holding her head high, Bianca had obviously directed this comment toward the Seeker as a way to one-up the woman at her back, having mentally placed her accent some time ago. She shot a suspicious glance toward the short woman and noticed Varric do the same from the corner of her vision.

Tactfully, he avoided Bianca's attempt to lure Cassandra into the conversation by quickly side-stepping talk of Nevarra altogether. "I heard some of the Guild were trying to get you named a _Paragon_ for that contraption."

"That's not going to happen, even if I _am_ ten times the smith that Branka ever was," she bragged openly, though her voice held a tenor of resentment. "A surfacer paragon? Never."

As the Inquisitor left them to their own devices and searched the room for anything useful, Cole began to pace just behind Cassandra, looking for a way to stand that would ease his discomfort with the situation. The spirit sensed the tension and was unsure of how to deal with it, but his stirring only went to further the awkwardness as they waited for Lavellan to finish her search. Unfortunately, the elf was now ripping contents from her rucksack, debating what was worth keeping in the face of newer, shinier items.

"How long are you going to be in Orlais, do you think?" Bianca asked suddenly, breaking the natural, ever-present humming of the underground thaig. She seemed to be revelling in their shared unease, and it wouldn't have surprised Cassandra to learn that she was feeding off it, using it to stoke the fire she was creating under Varric.

"As long as this weird shit is going on, at least. Maybe longer," he replied, crossing his arms to keep from fidgeting too much. "Why?"

Bianca stepped just a fraction closer, and she saw the hairs stand up on the back of his neck at her proximity. If the darkspawn and the Carta didn't kill him down here, the stress surely would. "You'll have to stop by before Bogdan gets back," she answered smoothly, a buttery quality to her voice. "You should see my new workshop…"

Cassandra sighed to herself and shook off the sordid innuendo, deciding it was better to make her way to the other side of the room before she was goaded once more. At her departure, Cole ceased his incessant pacing and watched as she put distance between them, keeping her innermost feelings mercifully private. Perhaps he understood more of the situation than he was telling and silently respected Varric's wish to keep their relationship from Bianca. Even still, Cassandra was growing frustrated with her lover for not putting her in her place.

"I'll see what I can do," Varric replied dismissively, though the Seeker caught the awkwardness in his tone. "You know your family will kill me if I stop by, right?"

"They're not going to kill you," she reassured him with an affectionate pat on his shoulder.

"You always say that," he replied grimly, freezing at her touch and shooting a guarded glance toward the Seeker, "and they always send assassins…"

**~oOo~**

Getting shot and being forced to pull the arrow from his seeping wound would have been preferable to this shit right about now.

Cassandra walked off as soon as Bianca had practically invited him to her bed, and he'd caught the look of satisfaction in the dwarf's eyes as she planted her proverbial flag in Varric's chest, claiming him all for herself. Andraste's Bustier, this game they were playing was really unfair to the Seeker, but she was doing everything she could to ignore the bait for his sake. He fought the instinct to go after her, but though it had looked as if she might storm out, she remained nearby in the event another patrol came across them, willing to fight for them regardless of their transgressions. It was admirable, but at least she was out of earshot in case Bianca tried to stir the jealousy pot again.

Just then, Bianca turned to face him, eyes alight, and Varric all but froze in place under her stare. "So, what's _with_ you? Do you have Starkhaven Syndrome or something?"

Shocked at the sudden confrontational shift, is eyes widened. "Beg pardon?"

"You know," she urged, her brow furrowing in frustration, "sympathising with your captor?"

How had she worked out that Cassandra was the one behind his interrogation? Pursing his lips sternly, Varric shook his head and dismissed her outright. "Believe me, she didn't want me here. I had to convince her to let me stay. Whatever you think about me, Bianca, I _chose_ to help close the damned demon hole in the sky."

"And are you planning on closing the hole in your head after you're done here?" She whispered, aggravated by thoughts she wasn't sharing yet.

He shifted his weight in discomfort, meeting her narrowed eyes sadly. "Some voids just can't be filled," he replied in a sombre tone. "Even with time… You know that."

After a moment, she scoffed and rested a small hand on her rounded hip, huffing out a cynical laugh. "Well, looks like you've got time to fill someone else's void."

His jaw dropped in shock at her crass statement. It didn't matter now that she'd sussed it all out, or how badly he'd hidden it from her. Suddenly all pretence was gone, and he was boiling with indignation at her glib attitude. "Andraste's ass, Bianca, what the hell's that supposed to mean?" He challenged her, forcing her to spell it out so she could hear just how stupid she sounded.

Varric realised that he'd never taken that tone with her before, and apparently, so had she. Bianca jerked back ever so slightly, the glimmer of shock apparent behind her shining eyes, but she masked it quickly under a cool demeanour of cynicism. "Don't get all defensive just because I caught you with your hand in the nookie jar, Varric."

"…What's a nookie jar?" Cole piped up out of curiosity.

Narrowing his eyes to twin slits, he fought the flush that threatened to stain his cheeks. "Don't you dare answer that," he warned her harshly.

His heart was racing within him, and it disturbed him when she actually laughed softly in his face. "Relax, Varric," she waved the whole argument off, "you think I care? Trust me, I know it gets lonely when we're apart. Have your fun on the side, but we both know who you always come back to in the end."

" _Bianca_ –"

"Exactly."

He sighed out a rueful chuckle, throwing his hands up as he turned to walk off her hypocrisy for a minute. How dare she get on his case over this, like she wasn't a married woman at this point, anyway? But Bianca was still vying for his undivided affection, after all this time, and would suffer no rivals.

Just then, the Kid stepped in and stared at Bianca in such a way that it stilled all movement between them. "It isn't fun for Varric," he breathed, keeping his voice tactfully low.

She barely stifled another laugh as she threw a glance at the Seeker over her shoulder, who was now slowly making her way back into the fold. "Oh, I believe _that_. Just _look_ at her."

The spirit stepped into her vision more prominently, staring her down as he read the situation for her. "No," he ignored her biting remark, pressing the issue so she couldn't misconstrue his meaning. "It's _real_."

Slowly, her jaw began to drop, but she closed her lips again as her eyes turned to look at Varric, the hurt plainly evident on her stunned features. That had driven it home; it wasn't just a fling, as she had presumed, but a full-fledged romance, and he saw the betrayal bury itself deep within her. Time seemed to stop along with his heart at her unabashed stare, and he desperately wanted to call an end to this confrontation before more could be said.

"Not right now, Kid," Varric gruffly mumbled to the young man, nudging him aside to keep him back.

"Focus on our objective," Cassandra's harsh accent bit curtly as she approached. "Your voices are echoing through the whole thaig. Maker forbid you get us all killed with your inane bickering."

The Seeker was using her presence of authority to quell the fight for now, and he could have kissed her for that – but didn't, knowing how well that would go over.

"Well, you were right about one thing, Varric," Bianca muttered, crossing her arms as she stepped away from the human. "She really is a bitch."

Before Varric had a chance to choke on his tongue, Cassandra glowered at the woman openly, firing back without hesitation. "Perhaps that's how he prefers it. Having met you, I'm sensing a growing pattern."

He nearly gave voice to his increasing awkwardness, but a movement to his left caught his attention. Finally done with her decision-making as to what she could afford to carry out of the ancient dwarven city, the Inquisitor joined them once more with a dubious glance aimed at everyone. "I have no idea what this is about, but _fenedhis_ , let's just do what we came here to do and get the hell out of here, shall we?"

Varric ran a hand over his face and avoided eye contact as all eyes eventually turned to him. Shaking his head in dismay, he set off again at a swifter pace, eager to get this over with. "No argument here," he agreed wholeheartedly, now completely accepting the notion that the Herald had been sent by the Maker to save them.

**~oOo~**

"There you are!"

Battle after battle with those standing in their way had worn them down, and all conversation had died as they continued on through the darkness, allowing for an hour's peace and quiet to be punctuated only by the clashing of steel, the splitting of arrows, and the singing of magic. Bianca suddenly spotting a camouflaged doorway and exclaiming was the first time any of them had spoken since the revelation upstairs, and the fact that her find pertained to the mission put everyone at ease… for all of less than a minute.

Fitting a mechanism of her own invention over the keyhole, Bianca stood and turned to them with a nod of affirmation. "They won't be able to use this entrance again."

All was still for a moment, but the quiet was shattered as Varric's shoulders squared, his eyes narrowing with distrust. " _Bianca_ …"

Her brow furrowing, Lavellan turned to glance down at her friend. "You want to say something, Varric?"

He took the opening and abandoned the good-guy routine. It had gotten him nowhere, and now his patience with her had been pushed too far. "Andraste's ass, Bianca! _You're_ the leak?!"

Putting out a meagre defence, she shook her head lamely. "When I got the location, I went and had a look for myself. And I found the red lyrium, and I… studied it."

She not only had no concern for him regarding her family but apparently none for herself, either. "You know what it does to people!" He shouted, stressing the dangers to her.

"I was doing you a favour! You want to help your brother, don't you? I just… wanted to figure it out."

" _Did_ you figure it out?" Cassandra asked, desiring more information.

Bianca turned her gaze to the Seeker momentarily, surprised at her interest. "Actually… yes. I found out that red lyrium…" She looked back at him, her eyes wide with wonder. "It has the _Blight_ , Varric! Do you know what that means?"

He glared and threw his hands wide, not interested in her findings. It was too dangerous to look at the stuff, let alone study it. "What? That two deadly things combine to form something super-awful?"

"The lyrium is alive! Or… something like it." Seeing Lavellan's intrigue plainly, she explained, "Blight doesn't infect minerals. Only animals. I couldn't get any further on my own, so I looked for a Grey Warden mage. Blight and magical expertise in one, right? And I found this guy, Larius. He seemed really interested in helping my research." She swallowed around a lump in her throat. "…So I gave him a key…"

Varric had heard that name before, and for some reason, it made his skin crawl all over. "Larius? He was the Grey Warden we met in Corypheus'…" And then it dawned on him. "Oh, shit. I knew something seemed off!"

"I didn't realise until you said you found red lyrium at Haven. I came here and… well…" She fidgeted somewhat, acknowledging the gravity of her error. She didn't know the half of it. "Then I went to you…"

"That name means something to you, Varric," Cole muttered, perceiving the significance of the Grey Warden to him.

Varric closed his eyes and nodded at the Kid's observation. "He was at the Grey Warden prison where we found Corypheus. And he definitely wasn't a mage before."

It took a moment for the betrayal to hit him fully, connections forming in his mind… Corypheus controlling the Wardens. The Wardens providing the location of the ancient thaig in the Free Marches where he and Hawke had gone to make their fortune on Bartrand's expedition. The Calling Corypheus had triggered which crippled Anders and threatened Bethany, forcing Hawke to look for help with Warden Stroud and the Inquisition to put a stop to it… Leading them to the battle against the Grey Wardens at Adamant Fortress, where they had fallen into the Fade… Through a convoluted chain of events, Bianca was indirectly responsible for… _Oh, shit._

"You had to know we'd figure out what happened, Bianca," the Inquisitor cut through his thoughts. "Why did you insist on coming with us?"

She had the tact to at least appear remorseful, though she likely was, to give her credit. "Varric told me what people were doing with the red lyrium. I… had to make this right."

The Seeker had seemingly drawn the same conclusions as Varric, and she was incensed enough to accuse Bianca outright. "You told Varric you had a 'lead' so we'd straighten out your mistake!"

Defensive at Cassandra's accusation, Bianca straightened indignantly. "I know I screwed up, but we did fix it! It's as right as I can make it!"

Finally finding his voice, Varric nearly shook with fury. "This isn't one of your machines! You can't just replace a part and make everything right!"

"No, but I can _try_ , can't I?" She narrowed her eyes at her old lover, stepping toward him. "Or am I supposed to wallow in my mistakes forever, kicking myself, telling stories of what I _should_ have done?"

Glaring back, Varric shook his head at her harsh summation of his character. Is that what she truly thought of him? "As if I would tell stories about my own mistakes."

Sighing, Inquisitor Lavellan did what she could to alleviate the tense atmosphere in the echoing chamber. "She did at least try to set things right, Varric…"

Sorrow filled his soul, and exhaustion caused him to give up trying to convince Bianca that her actions had more severe consequences than she was willing to face. There was nothing he could do to change the past. He only wished now that there was someone in this world he could trust completely. He'd believed she had been that someone, once… Now, he didn't know what to believe. "We've done all we can here… Bianca, you better get home before someone misses you."

She caught his dismissal of her, and he heard the pain in her voice as she pleaded with him for understanding. "Varric…"

Rubbing his neck, he waved her off and turned away from the scene. "Don't worry about it," he muttered, deciding to make for the surface to be alone with his thoughts.

Bianca watched him go sadly, lowering her eyes for a time in regret, but then she raised a glare to Cassandra, staring at her threateningly. "You get him killed, and I'll feed you your own eyeballs… Inquisitor," she nodded to the elf in parting, brushing roughly past Cassandra as she walked out after him.

**~oOo~**

He walked back up the stairs toward the first level, a hole in his heart where his love for Bianca had once laid. Varric felt distraught over what had happened between them, knowing that the damage done couldn't be repaired as easily as she had insisted it could. Trusting people was something that came to him naturally, and he would never have thought that telling Bianca about the red lyrium idol back home would lead to this. If he couldn't trust her, of all people in his life…

But he couldn't blame her for Hawke as he almost had. She couldn't have known the Wardens were compromised – no one had guessed that they would be behind this. They were heroes, protectors, above reproach. The perfect cover for someone like Corypheus, and if _he_ could bend them to his will, then anyone was capable of anything. Damn it, Bianca had done a lot to destroy his faith in people. Would he ever get that back…?

"Varric," her voice penetrated his pitiful musings, and for a moment he believed the whisper to be a conjuring of his own memory… Until he turned on the landing to find her beautiful face, so imploring and sombre, silently conveying all her heartfelt emotions. "…I don't know what I can do to make it –"

"Forget it," he uttered bleakly, his breath shallow in his lungs. He didn't have it in him to continue fighting the issue, nor look her in the eye. Instead, he took out his flask and removed the cork, taking a long sip to ease the pain. "Let's just drop it… I can't talk about it when it's this fresh."

Swallowing hard around a lump in her throat, she nodded slowly, perfectly willing to let the issue of the red lyrium fall by the wayside. "So," she started, changing the subject and nodding her head toward his companions, who were still concluding their business downstairs, "never expected you'd hook up with a human… Your brother will disapprove, you know."

It looked as though awkward conversation would be made, anyhow, and he took another generous swig of what could loosely be classified as whiskey. He hadn't had time to grab the good stuff before they left Skyhold, and made due with the cheap liquor the Inquisitor had brought along to sterilise wounds. "Well, he's not in Orzammar anymore," he mumbled hoarsely after swallowing the fiery stuff. "Things are different topside."

"…Must be nice to date whoever you want and not be traded like goods for services, sold off to the highest bidder for family alliances," she bit out disdainfully. "What's it like, all that freedom?"

The fact that Bianca knew the truth about him and Cassandra was bad enough, but her outright jealousy wasn't doing Varric any favours, either. She had no right to put this on him after what she'd just done. "Don't be like that. I spent _years_ putting myself back together after your family tore you away from me. Like it or not, I have to make a life of what's left," he begged her to see things from his point of view. "…We can't keep pretending to have something we don't anymore…"

It hurt him to admit it, but the old saying wasn't etched in stone without good reason: the truth did hurt sometimes. There was no chance for white picket fences and red-headed little scraps chasing after the family mabari, anymore… Hope for that life was long dead, though he had silently denied it until tonight, but as he met her eyes, he saw the desperation for that dream not to die glimmering in her eyes.

"Have you told her that you love her, yet…?" The question croaked from her throat, a lone tear threatening to spill forth and destroy his crumbling walls. "…Just like you used to tell me…?"

"Don't, Bianca," he pleaded, the heartache threatening to cut off his words. "Just… Don't do this."

"When I'm with you, I feel _free_ ," she confessed, stepping forward and grabbing his hand possessively, frantically trying to cement the bond between them in one last bid to change his mind. "I forget that you're not the one wearing my wedding ring whenever I see you smiling back at me…" She shook her head, unable to accept his pained rejection. "And now you're just… seeing someone else? And not just anyone, but that human _bitch_ who tortured you?"

He let his hand fall away and stepped back a pace, his ginger brows coming together as he looked away, unable to face her as he quietly seethed, "Stop calling her that. You don't know her."

She had hoped he would say that his new feelings were nothing more than physical yearnings, but his defence of her honour set her achingly straight. Staring blankly at the floor, Bianca fought to catch her breath as her heart broke within her. "…So I guess the best I can hope for now is… what? An arranged marriage to a husband who doesn't love me… but at least doesn't beat me?"

Break-ups were always hard, and regrets had been expected. The typical _it's not you, it's me_ spiel came to mind, followed closely by the revolting _I hope we can still be friends_ routine, but he dared not utter such clichés to her now. She would see right through them, anyway. "…Look, I… I didn't expect this to happen," he tried instead, biting a lip to stave off his emotions, "but I can't keep lying to myself that it isn't over… You didn't think young love would go on like this forever, did you?"

At the ensuing silence, he glanced up to meet her open stare of tearful resentment.

And it was then that Varric realised that was exactly what she had expected.

Bianca swayed as if registering his words for the first time, reeling from the blunt impact it made. Then her face hardened beneath a veneer of final betrayal, her disgust plain as she spoke at last. " _Fine_." She crossed her arms protectively over her heart, guarding it from his touch so he might never find a place there again. "Have fun moving on with your life, Varric. Just remember that not every surfacer has that luxury."

Varric didn't think it was possible to feel worse than he already did, but she proved him wrong. "Come on, don't end it like this," he whispered, not wanting them to part ways amongst such bitterness.

" _You're_ the one who ended it!" Her anger echoed through the open cavern, and in that agonising moment, he was sure he would never forget this night as long as he lived.

Closing his eyes, he shook his head with guilt, severing the love which had tied her heart to his for all their young lives.

"…Go home, Bianca," he stepped back, clearing a path for her to walk out on him. "Go back to Bogdan before he comes home to an empty house…"

He saw the exact moment her heart tore in two when he had uttered her husband's name for the first and last time. As she stiffened her lip and let out a trembling sigh, he watched agonisingly as she climbed the last set of stairs and disappeared around the corner, not once looking back… or saying goodbye.

Varric raised his flask to the spot she'd once occupied before him, toasting their love, their friendship, their life together, all gone as surely as the last drop down his burning throat.

Even the foulness of the whiskey couldn't wash away the awful taste of tainted regret. "Take care of yourself, sweetheart," he said to her ghost, his own spirit crushed within him.

**~oOo~**

Cassandra left Lavellan's side after a time she'd deemed worthy, allowing Varric and Bianca to speak privately for a while. Not knowing what she would stumble upon, she determined pre-emptively that if they were still conversing, she would return to finish packing with the others. Instead, she picked her way through the dark halls and rounded the corner to the last set stairs, only to look up and find him sitting on the stone steps at the top just below the landing, his flask laying on its side at his feet.

Though Bianca had been insolent toward her, even antagonistic on this journey, Cassandra was well aware that the dwarf had not been so to Varric all these years. Bianca had meant the world to him, and he to her, which was a valid reason for the woman's open hostility. Anyone whose territory was so blatantly encroached upon was bound to have such a reaction to another woman, and the Maker lent the Seeker strength she sorely needed to forgive. In time, she hoped to mend the wound she had inflicted on the dwarven woman, but it would not be tonight.

Tonight, she would do all in her power to mend his.

"I told her everything," Varric gratingly revealed before she could ask if he was alright. "Well, everything I could manage without…" His voice trailed off as he rested his forehead in the palm of his hand, trying to hold himself together for now.

She made her ascent toward him and lowered herself to the step just below his own so she would not have the need to look down as they talked. Sighing as she positioned her body to face him, she smirked sadly. "I never thought I'd have cause to say this, Varric, but you are honest to a fault."

He glanced at his empty flask, obviously wanting to drink to that, but not having anything on him for such a gesture. Smiling knowingly to herself, she brought forth her canteen and offered it in good faith. Water would have to do until he could find something stronger.

Letting out the breath of a laugh, Varric took it gratefully and had a sip, ignoring its lukewarm quality. "I know I said we shouldn't say anything, but after she worked it out for herself, I had to tell her where things stood between us," he admitted, his throat no longer as dry as it had been. Sighing, he met her empathetic brown eyes and attempted a meek shrug. "Shit. If this is all just the Maker winding me up, I hope there's a damn good punchline…"

Cassandra sensed his urge to let the incident roll off him like water on a duck's back, his natural instinct in these situations. He took emotional damage the same way she pushed past the physical in the midst of combat. She needed him to understand her feelings, though, and she began by laying her hand gently on his bent knee, her eyes softening vulnerably. "Do not think for a moment that I have underestimated what you sacrificed here, Varric. I will not soon take that for granted. It was not the proof I had asked you for, but it is all the proof that I needed."

Varric warmed to her then, and she felt his broken heart open gratefully at her words. Though she was not always as eloquent as she wished she was, Cassandra was glad that she had at least achieved the intended impact.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this, Seeker," he rasped quietly, laying his hand lightly on hers and stroking a calloused thumb over her own.

Arching a rueful brow, she countered softly, " _I_ dragged you into this, remember? Kicking and screaming, as I recall."

"No," he shook his head, breathing deeply and holding the canteen out for her to take, "you didn't. I chose this… For better or for worse."

Cassandra corked the water and replaced it on her hip, squeezing his knee in support. _For better or for worse…_

"So did I… Come, Varric," she urged him gently, standing up on the stone steps before extending an open hand for him to hold. "I'll take you home."


	19. No More Secrets

The winding tunnel wasn't leading to the surface fast enough for Varric's taste, and though he would have said it was impossible before, the cave was somehow darker than even the inside of his eyelids. As his footing slipped and his shoulder crashed against the wall, he felt a hand reach back to his place at the end of the procession, feeling blindly for his own. He grabbed the steel gauntlet through his tough leather gloves and straightened himself again, and when the hand moved to pull away, he held it firmly instead, relying on her support to get him through until he once again laid eyes on the night sky.

A low rumbling came from all directions at once, and suddenly everyone froze as though one of the Inquisitor's spells had gone haywire, feeling for movement of any kind to indicate what was occurring. Squeezing the hand in his, Varric was beginning to remember just why he hated being underground. As the unsettling noise ramped up and faded in a matter of seconds, he pressed forward, urging the Seeker to resume their trek. "As much as I'd like to find out if that sound is the mountain caving in on our heads, I think we should probably get a move-on," the dwarf elbowed them as he allowed sarcasm to alleviate his nerves.

"Let me help. I remember the way back," the Kid uttered while making his way to the forefront. Though the elf was perfectly capable of leading her friends out, the pitch blackness of their surroundings combined with the foul heaviness of the air wasn't doing anything to quicken her pace, and she welcomed his intervention wholeheartedly.

The unidentified noise, however, was also undeniably improving their speed. Before long they were stumbling over one another, the noise growing louder and more powerful with every crash it made. It sounded too similar to a mine collapsing in on itself as it started and stopped periodically, and the situation wasn't helped by the fact that it seemed to be coming from straight above them.

"There it is," Cole pointed uselessly in the dark, and he helpfully stepped through the grave-like cave to open it for them in the hopes of allowing the moonlight to shine the way, but strangely the sky was just as dark on the other end. They should have at least been able to see the faint glow of the Breach in the distance from here…

Once they had all stepped out into the fresh air again, Lavellan sighed with relief and wiped a hand over her patterned forehead, leaving a smudge of blackened dirt in her wake. "Everyone okay?" she asked, her eyes counting their familiar faces for reassurance.

"Never better," Varric nodded, straightening his overcoat and stepping out from behind Cassandra.

"What _was_ that?" The Seeker wondered in confusion as they walked out from behind the waterfall and down toward the still waters of the lake. "For a moment I feared we might be –"

The sky lit up around them, and immediately they reached for their weapons before looking up in time to see the clouds above flashing with the tell of a coming storm.

"Oh," the Inquisitor breathed, her large green eyes searching the skies. "The Forgotten Ones are warring."

"The sky is angry," Cole turned to her then with worry when the thunder cracked and vibrated through the air. "Maybe we should go before it starts to cry."

Cassandra was having none of their superstitions and took the lead, trusting they would follow her down to the wooden footbridge. "It is only a storm. We'll be safe enough back at camp. Once it passes overhead, we can make our way back to the farmstead for our mounts."

"Seeker, I'm not convinced that's the best plan," Varric warned as another bright flash lit up their surroundings like the sun itself. "I got a bad feeling that tents aren't going to cut it tonight."

The subsequent thunder followed much louder and more quickly than before and, as if in agreement with his last statement, the clouds opened up and instantly began to pour heavy buckets of rain down upon them. In mere seconds the team was drenched, cold water seeping through their garments and soaking them through and through.

"Son of a bitch," the dwarf shouted over the raucous downpour, "I hate it when I'm right!"

"You _love_ being right, Varric!" Lavellan was beginning to shiver already, her fair hair dripping as she hugged her elbows.

"Not about shit like this," he shook his head in an effort to shake the drops from his own hair. "I'm telling you, those canvas tents aren't gonna do us any good now! If the river floods, we'll have to do the backstroke in our sleep!"

Cassandra wiped her eyes and glowered at the clouds, and Varric was sure that if the weather had any sense at all, it wouldn't risk annoying the Seeker further with this nonsense. "Well, we can't just _stand_ here," she reasoned, throwing a hand in the air in indication. "We need shelter! Let us go back to the cave, at least until it breaks!"

Lavellan and Varric disagreed in unison, voicing their aversion to the idea with a "no way" and a "hell no" respectively, eliciting a loud groan from the warrior.

"What about the cabin?" Cole pointed out the unoccupied dwelling not far away, seemingly not the least bit bothered by the sudden turn the storm had taken. "Do you think Blackwall would mind if…"

Before he could finish his thought, the three glanced at one another and sprinted for the door, leaving the boy standing alone on the dock as he uttered, "Oh, okay… He probably wouldn't."

Following them slowly, he had reached his friends again just as Varric had picked the lock on the door and swung it wide, lightning through the windows illuminating the interior for a moment before it all went black again. It was only slightly warmer in here, but at least it was drier and more inviting than being at the mercy of the elements. Dutifully, they split up to begin lighting oil lamps and setting the fireplace, thankful that their "Warden" friend had taken in dry logs and kindling to set by the hearth before they'd come looking for him, all that long ago. The logs outside probably wouldn't be of any use to them at this point, but these ones lit easily enough with the Inquisitor's rudimentary fire spell she had on hand – literally.

The thunder was letting up about as much as the rain was, that is to say not at all, and Cole closed the door firmly before going to a window to marvel at the storm. "The wind is talking," he muttered to Varric, who joined him and pressed his hand to the pane, squinting as he peered outside. "Do you want to know what it's saying?"

"No, Kid. Thanks, though," he shivered, peeling off his damp coat and draping it on a hook.

"There is only the one bed," Cassandra observed, casting her eyes over their new surroundings. "I will see if there are blankets in the chest so we will be comfortable on the floorboards."

"Found some," the Inquisitor piped up, hoisting a couple of them over her shoulder. "There's a rolled-up fur over there by Cole. You can lay that out and sleep by the fire to keep warm. Do you see any pillows around?"

Cassandra cast her eyes about the cabin and shook her head. "No, but a closer inspection might turn up more. Have a look on that side while I search over here. We may find something suitable."

Coming into the fold, Varric let out a heavy sigh and held up a hand. "Everybody calm down," his gravelly voice soothed them. "We're not going anywhere for a while, so let's just take a breather. No need to go rushing around for supplies this second." Once they had stilled enough for him to think for a moment, he pursed his lips and mumbled, "Now, let's see… I'm a man on the run with a dark past. I live alone. Memories plague me at night when all goes quiet, and I probably suffer from bad dreams over terrible shit I did…" He stepped toward the bed, hands on his hips as he thought. "So where would a guy like me…?"

Her brow furrowing in confusion as she exchanged perplexed glances with Lavellan, Cassandra asked plainly, "What are you looking for?"

"Under the bed," Cole answered Varric's musings from across the cabin, not taking his eyes off the storm outside the window. "Where his monsters live."

"I was just about to say that," he confirmed, going to his knees and reaching blindly with his left hand underneath. With a muffled cry of victory, Varric pulled out a clear, half-empty bottle of amber liquid from beneath the bed frame and sauntered over to the women standing by the fire. "Hero may be one of a kind, but human behaviour is fairly reliable. And look, this is the good stuff! Lucky me."

" _Ugh_ ," the Seeker scoffed quietly, removing her gauntlets and unfastening her scabbard, "I should have known alcohol would be the _first_ thing you would look for."

Varric chuckled to himself, uncorking the bottle as he toasted her observation. "Well, dwarves are predictable, too, in our own small way." He took a gingerly sip, admiring the smoothness of the spirit – and speaking of, Cole moved to their location with the fur in tow, handing it off to the Inquisitor as if the animal from whence it came was carefully wrapped inside.

Lavellan untied the leather straps and laid it out on the floor, her friends giving her a wide berth as she shook out the black fur. "Well, so long as we're stuck here…" She settled down on a corner, removed her boots, and placed them by the hearth to dry, turning to the dwarf before reaching a hand toward the bottle. "Let's wind down a little, shall we?"

Pleased with her offer, Varric sat down opposite her and handed her the drink. "Not a bad idea," he smirked, the thunder nearly drowning out his words as it rattled the windows.

Resigning herself to the fact that there was nothing else they could do for the time being, Cassandra set her chest plate down and made her way to a bookcase, searching amongst the mismatched items on display. There she found a simple set of two tumblers and retrieved them delicately before taking the only available seat beside Varric. Cole removed his sopping leather hat and placed it on the floor behind him, seated cross-legged next to the Inquisitor, who was glad for the glass the Seeker offered. They sat in a companionable silence, leaning back and allowing the heat of the flames to roll over them, slowly drying their hair and clothes. Lavellan poured herself a glass of Blackwall's secret brew and passed the bottle back to Varric. Taking the Seeker's tumbler from her lap, he wordlessly filled hers as well before handing it back and keeping the bottle for himself.

For a while, he simply sat there in contemplative silence, staring into the flames as the weight of the day's events rested once again on his broad shoulders, and his face slowly took on such a look of remorse that the elf across from him leaned forward and placed a caring hand on his knee in support. "Let's talk it through, Varric," she eased him into opening up, taking a cautious sip from her glass.

Cole watched him steadily as Varric eventually shook his head, not turning his eyes to meet them yet. He had put on a fine act for them all by avoiding the topic of Bianca and pretending, at least at face value, to be his usual self, but as he raised the bottle to his lips and took a generous swig, it was apparent that even he had limits. "I'm glad to have answers, but… shit," he finally uttered mournfully. As Lavellan sat up again and shimmied forward a bit, Cassandra shifted herself to better view him. Varric looked as though this was the last thing he wanted to talk about with an audience, but considering he was among such sympathetic company, he opened up readily enough. "The second she showed up at Skyhold, I knew. I just…"

He sighed, glancing at the Inquisitor, Cole, Cassandra, and back again, the elven woman wholly empathetic to his plight, her eyes shining in the firelight. "I don't know how I would react if the one I loved betrayed my trust like that," she admitted softly, trying in her own way to understand what he was going through.

He shook his head lamely, shoulders sinking as he shifted the bottle from one hand to the other. "I let this mess happen. I gave her the thaig… And I am not good at dealing with shit like this."

Deciding to contribute with her own brand of advice, Cassandra gave him a gentle nudge. "Quit being evasive," she suggested, urging him to go right for the root of the problem. "Tackle it head-on."

Varric sipped again for the comfort it offered him, knowing it would come out easier with more drink in his belly. "Sure," he agreed with a hint of reluctance, not certain quite where to start. "You know it took me three years to work up the nerve to confront my brother for trying to kill me? And even then, I couldn't make myself do it without somebody to stand there and hold my hand."

He looked up at Cassandra, a rueful laugh trying to eek its way to the surface, but he quelled it with another long sip, coughing slightly at the sting it gave him. "If you hadn't dragged me here, Seeker, I'd be in Kirkwall right now, pretending none of this was happening."

She shook her head and was about to counter his statement before Cole interceded with his own. "That's not true, Varric," the spirit barely said above a whisper.

"Cole's right," Lavellan nodded at the boy in turn, eyeing Varric confidently over the rim of her glass. "You've worked as hard as any of us to stop Corypheus."

The Seeker could tell he wanted to believe that, and he shrugged regretfully, gazing into the fire as he asked himself, "Is that true…? I don't even know anymore…" For a moment longer, he sat in reflective silence, and Cassandra ventured her first careful sip from her own glass, noting its strength. It wouldn't be long before he was drunk off of this, the way he was so hurriedly putting it away.

"Thank you," he said to them with a nod. "For your help back there."

Lavellan accepted his thanks silently, her lips pressing to a fine line as another bright bolt of lightning flashed outside.

"After all this," Cassandra asked with care, "do you think that you will see Bianca again…?"

He knew the reason she had put her worrisome thought forward, and either couldn't or didn't care to disguise his sad smile as he looked at her fully in the firelight.

"I always do," he replied quietly.

And the thunder rolled.

**~oOo~**

… _Where's Hawke?_

Cassandra's eyes snapped open as her leg jerked her awake, and she was immediately greeted by the intense light of the fireplace directly before her. Squinting against the pain in her vision, she pressed her face into Varric's dry coat and slowly leaned up on an elbow. Coming to herself a bit more, the Seeker frowned as she stared at the garment. She hadn't remembered using it as a makeshift pillow before eventually falling asleep beside Varric on the bear furs.

The pained words from her dream echoed in her mind as she rolled to her left, placing her hand on what she'd presumed would be his shoulder, but it fell flat against the fur, the space beside her unexpectedly empty. Startled further, Cassandra sat up and looked around in concern, finding the dwarf sitting on a simple chair that Blackwall seemed to have built with his own hands, a new bottle resting on his lap.

"You're awake," she whispered, careful not to disturb the Inquisitor sleeping peacefully on the bed behind her.

Varric had been lost in thought for Maker knew how long before this, but stirred at her soft voice, brows raised above heavy lids. "Oh. Yeah, couldn't sleep," he quietly whispered back, looking down at the liquor he held as if unsure whether he should continue to indulge himself or put it aside. "I've been working my way through Hero's private reserves. Cole was keeping me company for a while, but he took off a little while ago."

"He left?" Cassandra looked around the cabin as if to confirm this for herself, and found that indeed the spirit was gone. "Where would he go at a time like this?"

Gathering that the conversation would not soon die away as he had wagered, Varric rose from the chair and sidled over to her, lowering himself somewhat unsteadily to the fur as the Seeker laid the wool blanket over his legs. "I don't know. He just said out of nowhere, 'Someone is hurting.' And then he walked out after that. I'm not too worried, though. He'll probably come right back after he does his thing."

She answered with a simple "oh" and wondered if he had managed to get any sleep at all, yet. From the sounds of it, the thunderstorm was behind them, but the chilly rain still pattered against the roof steadily, if not lighter than before. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Cassandra reached into his lap and took the alcohol from his hands, sniffing the rim gingerly. "Was this bottle sealed when you started?" She asked, aware that only a third of the alcohol was left.

"Hmm. Feels like I'm being interrogated all over again," Varric smirked ruefully, his eyes clearly bloodshot and glazed over. "Will you quit asking about it if I say no?"

"Yes," she replied honestly, wondering how he was still conscious at this point.

"Then no," he smiled through the obvious lie. Looking back at the fireplace then, the wryness in his expression faded after a long pause. Now, only regret and pain shone in his fatigued stare.

As conversation drifted away in favour of awkward silence, Cassandra quietly pondered upon what he might be thinking about that had caused him to drink so heavily. She didn't have to wonder too long before she surmised that he must be cycling through old memories of his time with Bianca, painful reminders that would haunt him as he wondered if it had been a mistake on his part to tell her the truth. The finality of his loss preyed on his mind, and likely would continue to do so for some time.

Indeed, he had lost a great deal in pursuit of their ultimate goal of stopping Corypheus, and she suddenly recalled what she had heard echoed from her memory before awakening. Learning that Hawke had not stepped through the tear in the Veil after him had been a tragic blow, and the wound had reopened for Varric upon overhearing later that his friend was still alive, yet beyond recovery. She most feared that sense of helplessness he had felt, and had taken the news of the Champion's survival in similar fashion. The realisation that nothing could be done was a devastating shock, incurring a level of grief that could not be soothed by any known means. Subsequently losing Anders to the same fate had not done much to heal him, nor could it have been expected to, and now the loss of Bianca, not through death, but through the death of the young, naive man he once was, marked a pivotal gravesite in his heart. It was understandable to assume that a part of him he once held dear had died inside, and he was doing all he could to drink himself into a stupor to suppress that bitter emptiness.

Casandra decided to join him in that dark place, knowing it was all she could do to pull him from it and back to her. "I dreamt of you tonight," she said in hushed tones, resolving to take a drink herself as she broke the silence of the night around them. The homebrew was harsh and tasted like the tears of demons, but she swallowed the rank liquid regardless, letting it burn a path to her stomach as it quelled the knot forming in her gut. "And I have at times reflected upon what you said, about choosing willingly to remain with the Inquisition."

As Varric took a deep breath to reply, she surprised herself by taking another sip and speaking again before he had the chance to interrupt. "With everything that happened earlier," she started again nervously, "I cannot help but believe that had you remained in Kirkwall, none of this would have happened. And I mean this in the sincerest way, that nothing good would have come of your leaving…" Biting her lip apprehensively, she continued, "I want you to know that I am glad you decided to stay with us. With me. Despite the fact that it would have been easier for both of us had you left, I do not want to find you've convinced yourself that your decision was the wrong one. Not if I can help it… I have faith that the Maker brought you here to ensure things didn't turn out much worse, your many personal tragedies aside… And without you, I'm certain that the heart for what I am doing would have been stolen from me," Cassandra admitted, lowering her gaze to her lap. "I know I don't often speak my mind on such things, Varric, but after tonight, you deserve to know what you have meant to me. How you have changed me, and… how grateful I am to rely on you in times of great need."

After a long pause, the dwarf reached over her lap and placed his outstretched hand on the bottle, but instead of pulling it from her grasp for his own consumption, his hand rested there as if to anchor himself to her, solidifying her presence beside him. "…Do you remember when we had that talk before heading off to that snowy hellhole and everything went wrong?" He reminisced quietly, his copper, sombre eyes locked on the fire. "You asked me why I didn't try to run off if I was so sure I could've gotten away from you, and I remember saying something along the lines of not being ready to share that particular story, yet…"

Her brow creased as she turned to him, her eyes resting on him softly as she dared not utter a sound, lest she cause him to reconsider his next words. It was obvious that he was inebriated, yet still he was holding himself together well enough. But now it seemed as though his lack of sobriety was the only thing he was able to keep under close guard, the remainder of his long-kept secrets at last about to be revealed. Listening intently as the Inquisitor rolled over and resettled in her sleep, she held her breath and waited for him to go on, laying a hand on his forearm affectionately.

"The truth is, Seeker," he whispered, turning to stare at the bottle, his fingers tightening around the neck, "I couldn't really escape you… Sure, I could've snuck off and you'd have been none the wiser, but that's not an accurate enough description. I guess it was more like… like you couldn't escape me. My interest, my curiosity, my desire to know more about who you really were. I was drawn to you, and I couldn't just explain it away. There was something special about you, as much as I hated to admit it at the time given all you'd put me through. And I wanted to know what it was, even if it took me out of my comfort zone to find out… Not everything that happened since my decision to stay has been wonderful, but it's more or less been worth it… leaning heavily toward the 'more', every day."

Glancing up, he exhaled a soft breath and found his hand reaching up to cup her face gently, her eyes staring back with intensity as she studied him in turn. "To sum it up, there are some stories that you have to stick with to the end, no matter what comes next… And for me, Cassandra, you just… became that story."

She didn't know how best to react to Varric's tender candidness. Whether the drink caused him to hold nothing back or he felt it was the right time to reveal his hand, Cassandra would never truly know. All she knew now was that she was moved by his honesty beyond what words could rightfully express. And after realising they were as alone as humanly possible in this quiet moment before the dawn, she leaned toward him, her mouth meeting his to taste the sweet undertones of the liquor on his lips.

It was the first time she had initiated a kiss in their new, budding relationship, and the rush that flooded through her was addictive in its intoxicating abandon. The moment was all she had dreamed to someday experience: the storm outside their warm shelter, the bearskin rug, the fireside radiating before her, the romanticism of twilight… All of it, added to the fact that it was Varric with whom she shared this vivid fantasy, was enough for her to lose herself, once again acting predictably on pure impulse.

"I know it's not the best time to ask this," the Seeker managed to say between soft kisses, which gradually grew more fervent with every passing second, "and call me selfish, but I want you… No, Maker help me, I need you… It should be discreet, but it must be now." Her heart slammed against her ribs as though attempting to escape the confines of her chest, and she gripped the sleeve of his crumpled shirt, pulling his arm toward her.

Barely able to suppress his sudden bubbling laughter at her words, he quietly set his bottle aside and blinked hard, pulling back to search her face. "Shit, I must be hallucinating, Seeker; I've had a little too much to drink," he rubbed his chin roughly. "Do me a favour and punch me until I'm sober again."

As soon as she made an odd face and raised her fist to reluctantly comply, he backed away abruptly. "Wait – never mind… Maybe you could just repeat that for me."

Unclenching her fist and lowering the hand back to his solid arm, she exhaled a level sigh, staring at him candidly. "I want you, Varric," she whispered again so bluntly that his eyes widened to near perfect circles. "Now… Please."

He stared for a long moment in surprise, registering her words fully. "Okay… Guess I heard you right the first time." Looking over her shoulder, he considered whether their sleeping companion was out cold enough to meet her demands. Lavellan had indulged in a few glasses herself before retiring to Blackwall's rickety bed, so it was safe to assume they wouldn't have any issues with witnesses.

Meeting her eyes again, his brow furrowed quizzically, still not entirely convinced this was actually happening. "You're being serious, right?"

She raised a sceptical brow at him and cynically muttered, "Varric, have you ever known me _not_ to be serious?"

"Good point," he mumbled under his breath through a smirk. Mentally calculating his next move, Varric shook his head once more in disbelief and placed a hand on her shoulder, urging her back down. "Okay, on your side, Seeker. Face the fire," he instructed. He then shifted to lay behind her while covering them with the wool blanket to better hide their secret, ill-advised liaison.

Cassandra barely had enough time to consider the rationality of his positioning. Should Cole return or the Inquisitor awaken, they could stop instantly and appear only to be sleeping close for warmth. That thought raced through her mind reassuringly and evaporated in a second as Varric pried himself free of his trouser laces, not bothering to push them down more than was strictly necessary. "I'm pretty far gone at this point," he warned as he urged her reinforced leggings over the curve of her hips. "This might take me a while."

She helped him, her warm hands shaking with anticipation, and she arched her back to press against his chest urgently. "Just don't get caught. That's all I ask," Cassandra whispered, suddenly reminding herself harshly not to also voice her enthusiasm so obviously this time.

His smile was audible as he leaned up on an elbow and jokingly bragged, " _Pfft_. I never get caught."

There was a brief pause as she froze before turning slightly on the fur to face him, the look she shot him dubious at best. Chuckling softly when he caught her meaning, Varric gave her a light shove, which forced her back over on her side. "Alright, alright, you've made your point. _Sometimes_ I get caught…"

Before Cassandra could take another soundless breath, he clamped his hand down over her mouth and buried himself deep. It was fortunate that he had thought to do so, or her ensuing gasp might have brought the roof down around them. Clenching her eyes tightly, she grabbed his leather belt in a fist to hold him still for a moment, desperate to have him go on, yet needing a minute to adapt to him beforehand.

He sighed out a hot breath on her shoulder, closed his eyes in ecstasy, and brushed his lips over the trembling woman in his arms. "Actually, embarrassing as it is for me to admit, this might not take as long as I thought…"

As the dwarf ran a hand over her form and found a place for it to rest on her waist, his hips pressed against the Seeker while moving carefully within her, he realised that Cassandra, once undeniably his ruthless captor, was now utterly and completely at his mercy, and the tables had seemingly been turned in his favour…

Varric kept his adoring stare fixed on the side of her face as she fought intensely to control her breathing through deep sighs, speaking to her unrelenting pleasure. Little did she know that, despite the freedom she'd granted him, he still remained a captive of the beautiful woman lying next to him. Without a doubt, he would be wholly unable to escape her now, no matter if he could.

But it had all been worth every minute of sorrow, if only to know her so completely.

Maker help him, she was worth all that and more.

**~oOo~**

It wasn't yet mid-morning the following day when at last they reached the gates of Skyhold, soldiers signalling loudly to one another that the Inquisitor and her small party had returned. They entered to a chorus of welcomes from those within sight of their entrance, and Cassandra waited for the Herald to dismount first before she too slid from her saddle, leading the grateful horse by the reins back into Master Dennet's care. The horsemaster was pleased to see their animals in such good, clean condition, and Lavellan happily informed him that their state was in no small part due to the care his own daughter had provided them. Beaming with pride, the man was positively beside himself already before the elf also pointed to a parcel on her mount, meant for him from his wife. Eager to get the horses back in their stables for a treat of fresh carrots and apples, he took each horse one by one, leaving the four grouped together near the open barn door.

"So," Varric rubbed his gloves together in anticipation, "we're back three days earlier, guys. What do you want to do first? Wash up? Grab a drink? Maybe play a hand of Diamondback?"

"Nothing's on the agenda," Lavellan agreed, a smile slowly overtaking her face. "I say the sky's the limit."

The Seeker shook her head at the notion of whittling away the days instead of taking advantage of being ahead of schedule. "We have gained enough time to catch up on our reports," she suggested rationally, garnering dissenting looks her way.

" _Bah_. Paperwork," the dwarf shuddered, taking a deep breath as he kicked at the muddy grounds. "Not much fun after the trip I've had. No thanks."

"The trip wasn't all bad," Cole sheepishly took a stab at the bright side of things. "I liked the flowers along the way. And the people."

In short order, Lavellan had decided their next course of action: none at all. "At least until tomorrow morning," she'd clarified hurriedly, sensing Cassandra's frustration. Perhaps they had a point; the Seeker had grown a bit sore in the saddle, so a day's respite would possibly improve their motivation more. Surely being _two_ days early would still prove advantageous.

Looking back at them, she noticed Cole and the Inquisitor staring past the barn doors, one alert and straight-backed, the other furrowing her brow so that the tree on her forehead appeared to sway in the breeze. Varric glanced up and followed their gazes curiously, his own brows shooting up as he caught sight of none other than Blackwall sitting on a stool and leaning over a large wooden barrel, his features in profile as he stared down at the bottom morosely.

Cocking his head to the side, the storyteller walked in and swung an arm wide in greeting. "Hero, aren't you a sight for sore eyes! I was just going to get something to drink if you'd…"

His voice trailed off as Blackwall stiffened noticeably before eventually turning his head to face them.

" _Fenedhis,_ " Lavellan jumped back in shock, her large elven eyes somehow wider than ever. "You really _are_ a sight…!"

Varric stood staring, his mouth agape and unable to move. Cole appeared somewhat unnerved by the man and breathlessly commented, "Where did the other half go?"

His lips turning in a deep frown, the warrior looked back down at the barrel, and Cassandra was able to see that it was filled with water for the horses, the still surface acting as a mirror upon which he viewed his reflection. Stepping toward him, the Seeker moved through the layer of hay on the floor, shaking her head in disbelief. "Blackwall," she uttered, desperate for some semblance of clarity, "what in the Bride's Holy Name happened to your beard?"

He didn't answer for a long moment, instead taking a deep breath into his expansive chest and letting it out slowly, never taking his eyes off the water. "Lost it," his deep voice vaguely answered. "Well, half of it, anyway."

She crossed her arms over her Seeker chest plate. " _How_ does one 'lose' half a beard?"

Her companions slinked forward, joining her at her side as she urged herself to find patience, waiting for him to exposit more. The man didn't move, didn't even utter a sigh, and glumly replied, "Quite easily, if one owes on a bet."

Varric suddenly covered his mouth with a hand to disguise his mirth, looking downward at the hay-strewn floor as he fought a grin. "Shit," his muffled, gravelly voice shook out, shoulders lurching as he laughed silently. "Sorry, Hero."

"Ah, it'll grow back," Blackwall waved his apology aside with a gesture. "Solas says he knows of a spell that can regrow the whole of it in a matter of hours, but he wants me to shave the rest of it off so he has 'a blank canvas to work with.'"

"Well, that's a relief," Lavellan brightened, most likely due to the mention of her not-so-secret lover. "Why the long face then?"

The thick black bushes over his eyes that he called brows furrowed at this, and he looked back down to the water, tentatively touching the bare side of his jawline. He was obviously troubled at the prospect, but Cassandra was unsure why, if the matter could be resolved before supper was served.

"You don't like when Rainier stares back at you," Cole read the warrior quietly. "He was another body you buried, but now he's back, bared, blinking, boring into you... Blackwall is who you are, not him. He was you, but now he's not and never will be again. Hair or no hair, Rainier's _not here_."

After a time, the man nodded, letting out a heavy sigh from his very core, and Cassandra at long last saw plainly how his life and decisions had changed him from the man he once was. Feeling sympathy rise to the forefront, she advised, "Take Solas up on his offer, Blackwall. You don't need the reminder, however unintended it was. Besides," she smirked, unable to help herself, "Rainier wasn't _half_ the man you are."

Varric laughed again, catching himself and covering his mouth to stifle the echo he made through the barn. Clearing his throat, he offered, "Yeah, come on; I've got my razor in my pack. _I'll_ shave it off so you don't have to look at the old bastard if you don't want to. Alright?"

Nodding through a rueful chuckle, Blackwall agreed to this. "Yeah, alright, Varric. Thanks."

"No problem, Hero," he said, rummaging through his rucksack for the kit.

Crossing her thin arms before her, Lavellan's pointed ears burned, fighting a sudden flush to her cheeks. "Well then, that's settled. I'll just… go tell Solas that his services will be required in the barn soon." Nodding to them each in turn, she spun on her heel and hastily left their rustic surroundings in favour of the obvious. She wasn't fooling anyone with her nonchalant walk up to the main hall, her pace visibly picking up when she believed herself out of their line of sight.

The dwarf pulled over another stool and climbed up to the seat, dipping his cup in the barrel for the foam and razor. "Don't worry, I do this all the time. Just stay still and we'll avoid any nicks. Why'd Tiny up the stakes and demand more than money? I thought it was just a sovereign you owed him."

As Varric applied the cream, Blackwall straightened his neck and leaned toward him, his eyes closed as he concentrated on keeping perfectly still. "It _was_ just a sovereign," he said through clenched teeth, "but I neglected to tell him that he'd actually won. Then Dorian went and opened his bloody mouth last night while we were all sharing a pint in the tavern. When Bull figured it out, and that I fucking knew about it, I didn't have enough coin on me to properly _compensate_ him."

"What was the bet for?" Cassandra asked, subconsciously craning her own neck as Varric worked the blade over Blackwall's skin.

Wincing slightly, Varric spared a quick glance in her direction before cleaning his razor in the cup. "Us," he clarified for her, earning himself an indignant scoff from her direction. "Whether or not we'd actually… yeah."

" _Sleep_ together?!"

" _No_ , not that," Blackwall raised a hand, seemingly scandalised by her accusation. Then he paused and looked between them. "Wait. Have you two –?"

"Stick to the story, Hero," Varric ignored the question, pulling his beard hairs to aide a closer shave. To Cassandra, he hurriedly reassured, "It was just on whether we'd end up like the protagonists of one of your romance novels. I swear I wasn't in on it. If I was, I'd have paid out just like Hero, here."

Calming down, Cassandra relaxed her scowl and moved to stand near the fire to warm herself. "So, The Iron Bull is aware. Does _everyone_ in the keep now know?"

"Not everyone," Cole shook his head beneath his frumpy hat. "Just Blackwall. And Dorian and The Iron Bull. Solas, too. Vivienne knows, and Leliana suspects, but she doesn't really believe it. Josephine is still trying to find out who you were talking about a few days ago, Cassandra. And Cullen has overheard rumours from the soldiers, but he doesn't really care. Maryden is writing a song for you, but she'll sing it in other taverns later, not here… There are whispers in the kitchens, too, but they're not true... Not all of them. Oh, and me. I know."

As Cole's off-hand list grew ever longer, Varric turned to stare at the spirit, an eyebrow raising in shock. "I thought you said 'not everyone'! That sounds like everyone to me, Kid."

The boy shrugged a shoulder meekly. "The Inquisitor doesn't know. She believes _something_ is happening, but no one will tell her. And Sera thinks she knows, but she's wrong about who."

Rolling her eyes, Cassandra traded a cynical look with Varric before he resumed his work. "So much for keeping a scandalous secret under wraps," she bit snidely. "We might as well have announced it in open court."

"Ah, it's not so bad," Blackwall tried to stay positive for them. "Could be worse. And to think you were worried about Lavellan finding out! Turns out everyone _but_ her is in on your little secret. Bloody ironic, if you ask me," he chuckled deeply.

" _Ugh_ ," the Seeker grumbled, kicking up the ground as she made her way back over to them. "If we must speak, let it be of other things."

"Fine by me," the burly warrior agreed, the subject clearly more than a bit awkward for him. "So, you're back early! How did the mission go with Bianca? I assume you got the job done."

"We stopped the spread, locked the lyrium away," Cole said, watching closely as Varric removed the last strands of long black hair and began shaving away the stubble left behind. "There was a storm, and we stayed in your home that night until it was gone."

"Oh," Blackwall frowned at that, giving Varric a knowing glance out of the corner of his eye. "So it's probably safe to assume my supply of alcohol has dwindled somewhat."

Smirking, Varric shrugged a shoulder, narrowing a critical eye and turning Blackwall's chin the other way. " _Somewhat_ , sure. Consider this as payment for my greed and thievery, Hero. Now stop moving, this thing is sharp!"

Sighing, the man set his hands on his hips to keep himself still. "Anything else?"

Cole nodded, innocently carrying on. "I saw an old elf sitting in solitude at his wife's silent grave. He's still sad, but he feels a bit better, now… And Cassandra would rather be the hammer, but Varric likes it when she's the nail, sometimes."

The Seeker's eyes rounded in horror at the spirit's words, and Blackwall's jaw dropped, utterly stunned, causing an unsteady Varric to nick him noticeably. His hand flew up to cover the laceration, which bled somewhat, but not alarmingly so. "Uhm," Varric stammered, "sorry about that. I'm sure Chuckles can fix this, too, while he's at it."

"Yeah, no, that's…" Blackwall cleared his throat gruffly, visibly awkward at what Cole had revealed, though he did his best to scrub it from his mind's eye. "Maker's Balls, that's a lot of blood."

Unable to fight the intense blush staining her cheeks a bright red, Cassandra refused to make eye contact with any of them. "I-I should return to my duties," her shaky voice cracked embarrassingly. "I will… speak to you all another time. And good luck with the spell, Blackwall." She swiftly turned to depart with what was left of her crumbling dignity.

"Oh, hey, Seeker," Varric called out to her as an afterthought, waiting for her to turn before continuing on. "Since we've got all this time on our hands, I thought I'd organise a game of Wicked Grace later, if you're up for it. Just thought we could all get together and play a few hands. Think you might be interested in that sort of thing?"

She thought about it for a moment, raising her gaze to meet his. As a soft, apologetic smile spread over his lips, she felt her own face echoing the expression back at him, and slowly nodded, her blush deepening for a better reason. "Yes. I'm in," she agreed, pleased to finally be included in her companions' after-hour games.

"Great," he smiled charmingly. "…And if you win, I promise you can hammer away at me all you want."

" _Ugh,_ " she grunted, narrowing her brown eyes at him. "You're _always_ hammered when you play cards, Varric, and I usually have nothing to do with it!"

"This metaphor is making me very uncomfortable now," Blackwall all but pleaded for them to stop.

Shaking her head in surrender, Cassandra rolled her eyes slightly and smiled for once, turning and making her way toward the armoury.

As Varric put his kit away and poured a drop of lotion into his friend's palm, Blackwall watched her as she ascended the stone steps to the courtyard. "I've never seen the woman do _that_ before," he marvelled quietly. "She has a beautiful smile."

Studying his friend's oddly bare chin, Varric let out a longing sigh, a note of adoration in his voice as he nodded, turning to watch her go.

"Yeah… She does."


	20. An Ancient Pastime

"…And I'm sitting there in those creepy ancient ruins – which you would have found endlessly fascinating, by the way – trying to figure out if it's best to leave a couple of old swords behind so I can carry this gem-encrusted vase and a new bow for Sera…"

He sat quietly on the ivory sofa along the wall in his study, petting the soft, grey furs of _Banal'ras_ as she snoozed against his crossed leg, the book on his lap unable to tell him anything he didn't already know, but at least offering an interesting commentary from a historical perspective, if not biased greatly towards the Chantry. His Heart lay on her side atop the back of the sofa behind him, and her unusual presence there brought a smirk to his lips, if only for the oddity of the cat being the one whom curled up against him and the Inquisitor being outstretched over the furniture, positions that were more commonly reversed than what reality instead dictated for him presently. She was speaking actual words, he was assuming, but the text was proving more difficult to pull away from than he'd anticipated. Lavellan had been gone for some time, and though their separation was brief, the sound of her voice alone was providing Solas with an immense comfort, allowing him to read without being distracted by idle thoughts of where she was and whether she was indeed safe. What she recounted about her journey mattered little compared to the sweet relief he received upon knowing she was home safely again, at last.

"…and Varric and Bianca are having some kind of _argument_ with each other which was pretty off-putting. So Cole steps in, and I happen to look over just when Cassandra tells them all to shut up, and then I could _hardly_ believe it, but Bianca called her a…"

Although her soft chatter went completely over his head (quite literally, in fact), he nodded to whatever she was saying and turned the brittle page, furrowing his brow at an embossed depiction of Shartan on the right-hand side, his ears blatantly rounded rather than pointed. History may have been carefully scrubbed of elven contribution in a few key areas, but he reminded himself that at least it was being rectified in artwork commissioned by the current era. Perhaps future editions of this text would include such updates.

Solas only managed to look up from the parchment after she'd successfully tickled him just below his right ear. He flinched and turned the ear her way as though belatedly offering it to her, realising that he ought to have paid a bit more attention to her musings.

"By the Dread Wolf, are you listening, Solas?" Lavellan groaned, stretching her travel-worn legs before collapsing in a heap again.

Keeping his finger in the book, Solas closed it and turned as much as would be tolerable for _Banal'ras._ " _Vhenan_ ," he smiled in an effort to disguise his discomfort with the phrase, "when you so casually lament, 'By the Dread Wolf', what are you intending to insinuate?"

Lavellan propped her head up with an elbow, and he felt her shrug shift through the back cushion. "I don't know… It's just an old curse, I suppose, or an exclamation, like ' _Maker's Breath_ ' for humans, or ' _By the Stone_ ' for dwarves. Not exactly sure what the phrasing actually means, but I can guess how it started. Why?"

"Well," he offered as he turned back to the correct page, careful not to come across as condescending as his words might imply, "perhaps then you should refrain from speaking of things you don't fully understand."

" _Oh!_ " She traced the shape of his ear with a digit mischievously. "Would you care to _enlighten_ me, _hahren_?"

Reaching his hand up, he clasped her wandering fingers with his own and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Not presently, my Heart. Perhaps another day, when there will be more time to devote to such… complicated matters."

"Hmm, yes, _another day._ And I find it _extremely_ interesting that you changed the subject."

Though he hadn't caught every word of her longwinded tale of woe, he'd gleaned the basics, and let out a slightly exasperated sigh. " _Lethallan_ , if you find yourself so eager to trade in gossip, why not ask someone who gleefully participates in it? Or, if you prefer, ask Cassandra if you seek an honest answer. Going directly to the source of any rumour will provide one with more certainty than simply relying on the second-hand speculation of others not personally involved."

The Inquisitor scoffed at that and shimmied her way to the end of the sofa, slumping on the cushioned arm at the far end. "You know _exactly_ what would happen if I just walked up to her and asked if she was spending 'quality time' with Varric."

"Mmm, is that what _lenen_ are calling it, now?" He buried his long nose back in the book, a gentle turn of the mouth affecting the quality of his cadence. "In any case, I thought the Dalish were quite fond of making up their own conjectures and shunning the truth in most matters."

He was only teasing her and, thankfully, she well knew it. At least Lavellan had the wherewithal to realise his facetiousness instead of taking offence where none was intended. "Well, I'm not 'fond' of earning myself a black eye in the process," she mumbled, leaning over to stroke the furry companion between them. "Besides, I can't imagine them sleeping together, so what's the point in asking?"

Solas snorted gently at her statement, keeping his narrow blue eyes on the page. "No, I suppose there isn't much point imagining _that_ , is there? Unless you're far more prying and obscene than I first presumed."

"Oh, so you think I'm _obscene_ now?" She slid down to the cushion on his right side and leaned over the drowsy cat to rest her tattooed chin on his shoulder. He turned to her then and smiled upon seeing the look she held, one of her fair brows arched impishly beneath her _vallaslin_. "Come to my chambers later, _emma lath_ ; I'll show you obscene."

Taking a sorely-needed breath before he was able to reply, Solas stopped himself short as his gaze was drawn to the door, where Master Tethras had just made a quiet entrance. Leaning up, he affected a welcoming expression and nodded in greeting, thereby catching Lavellan's attention. As predicted, she immediately straightened and placed her hands on her lap innocently.

"Am I _interrupting_ something?" Varric grinned knowingly, sending a calculated wink Solas' way.

Clearing her throat, Lavellan scooped the overgrown kitten into her lap and stood up, cradling the sleepy creature in her arms tidily. "Alright, _hahren,_ I'm off to speak to Josie. We'll talk later."

Looking down briefly to memorise the page number, he closed the book and rose, moving to place it before the chair at his desk. " _Dareth shiral, ma vhenan_ ," he said warmly as she departed, turning his attention to the dwarf. "I'm pleased to see you are well, Child of the Stone. How can I be of assistance to you?"

"Hey, Chuckles, good to see you, too," he replied, clasping his gloved hands and rubbing them together with anticipation. "You and Sparkler have a minute to talk over that, uh… _thing_ I spoke to him about the other day?"

His brow relaxed as he realised what this visit was pertaining to, and Solas let out a high-pitched whistle, glancing upward as Dorian came into view along the railing, looking rather affronted.

"Did you just think to call me with a damned _whistle_ , Solas?"

Leaning against his desk, he nodded and retorted, "I apologise for causing offence, Dorian. Incidentally, what method does a magister utilise to gain the attention of his or her elven slaves?"

"Oh, _bloody_ …" The man let out a groan and disappeared before then emerging after a long moment from the archway leading to the winding staircase. "I'd much rather call them 'servants', but point goes to you this round."

As he approached in his usual sauntering gait, Varric reached a hand into his back pocket and pulled out an antiquated hand mirror, presenting it to the mage as though this was a finely-wrapped gift.

"What's this?" Dorian asked pointedly, spinning the handle to inspect the thing like an appraiser at an auction house and shooting an odd glance toward the dwarf.

Varric shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest hair. "You asked me to bring you back something pretty, didn't you?"

The Tevinter scrunched his nose at it. "And this hideous old dwarven mirror was all that was available?"

Smirking as if pleased with himself, his gravelly voice replied, "You have to _look_ at it for the full effect, Sparkler."

"Is that right? Is it enchanted or –" And then his green eyes lit up with an adoring smile upon gazing at his own perfect reflection. "Oh, you smooth little charmer! You do know how to butter me up, Varric." Primping his hair for a moment, Dorian lifted his chin once more before pocketing the little souvenir, drawing out an eye roll from Solas.

"Okay, so I know I'm back a little earlier than you expected, but let's get down to business," he started, eager to arrive at the point. "Have you been able to find anything?"

"Varric," Dorian gave him a sidelong glance, "if it were _that_ easy to track their locations, surely they all would have been discovered in the last thousand years."

He grimaced tiredly, conceding the mage's point slightly. "Look, I know I'm asking a lot, but… This will mean the world to her. If you found the tiniest clue, even an excerpt in a passage, give me what you've got and I'll take it from there."

Solas placed his palms on the surface of the desk and gripped the edge with his fingers as he cleared his throat. When the two looked over at him, he lowered his eyes and cocked his head to the side before beginning with what was known. "These relics were crafted in a single night, one for each of the disciples and followers of Andraste, herself included. Brona, her loving mother. Hector, Lord of the fortress of Nevarra, murdered when Andraste was betrayed. Justinia, a Tevinter slave and friend who stood by her during the war with the Imperium. Havard, he who gathered Andraste's ashes and relocated them to what we now know was the sacred temple. Shartan, leader of the elven slave rebellion, whom allied themselves with Andraste after she freed them, and fought alongside her armies. Hessarian the Redeemed, though, did _not_ possess one, as he was only made a disciple later, after repenting for ordering her execution and turning the Imperium from worship of the Old Gods and to the Maker."

"We're well-versed in the disciples, Solas," Dorian informed him needlessly, placing a hand on his hip casually. "Though I'm a little bit surprised to find that _you_ are, as well."

He took a deep breath and released it slowly. "I am a steadfast lover of ancient history, Dorian. Though this historical account is not _as_ ancient as those I tend to prefer, it is quite fascinating, considering current events." Turning to Varric, he added, "One was also crafted for Maferath, but I took the liberty of eliminating him from the list of candidates. I did not foresee Cassandra cherishing your thoughtful gift as much if it had once belonged to The Betrayer himself. That might possibly send the wrong message."

Varric furrowed his ginger brows and appeared to be mentally scratching off names. "Okay, so not counting her scumbag husband and her repentant executioner, that means there's… what, six at most somewhere out there," he surmised, pursing his lips in pensive consideration.

"Five," the elf corrected with a hesitant nod. "Andraste was burned alive whilst wearing her own. It was likely among her ashes, which theoretically might have contributed to their supposed healing powers."

"Ah, charming," Dorian mused before adding his own research to the pile. "I've confirmed that Justinia's is now residing in The Black Divine's Museum in Minrathous – I found that as surprising as you do, I'm sure – and another, said to be Hector's, is part of a private religious collection belonging to a particularly high-ranking magister whom had dealings with my father. He's not likely to part with it, though. His family and mine have… 'bad blood' flowing between us. Let's just leave it at that."

The news seemed to dissatisfy Varric somewhat, and he winced visibly. "Damn, Cassandra would have been moved to tears if I'd gotten my hands on Hector's… Alright, that leaves who? Havard, Brona…"

Solas shook his head regretfully. "Havard's body has never been discovered, and he was most likely wearing it when he died. And Brona has disappeared as well, likely buried somewhere deep in the vast Tevinter deserts. In any case, I have not found texts alluding to either as of yet, nor do I anticipate anything further."

The dwarf's eyes appeared to gloss over as his prospects grew thinner by the second. Going through the list of remaining disciples in his mind, he arrived at the only possible deduction. "So… that leaves Shartan."

"Hmm, yes," the altus muttered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "he whose own Canticle was stricken from Chantry doctrine centuries ago."

"Quite unfairly in a racially-motivated attack against the _elvhenan_ ," Solas defended the man readily, waving a hand in dismissal when they raised their eyes to him expectantly, "but… that is neither here nor there."

Conceding the point, Dorian lowered his voice almost conspiratorially, as if it was blasphemy to even speak of the elven commander in the keep. "I won't deny that, Solas, but there is even less to go on when it comes to him. Some tomes record his death from a volley of arrows whilst defending the Maker's Bride against capture, which also supposedly wiped out much of his free army. Others put the man at the foot of Andraste's stake as a grieving witness to her execution. And just to confound matters all the more, there are legends that say he quietly slipped off into the night as she burned, alone and distraught, disappearing without a trace." Throwing a hand up to accentuate his frustration with lore in general, the mage sighed and paced for a moment through the round study. "I hate to say it, given my love for history _and_ Andraste, but perhaps none of those accounts are even reliable."

Biting his lip, Solas thought for a moment about his next words, and evenly replied, "Or perhaps all are." As soon as Dorian ceased his pacing and turned to stare at Solas sceptically, he addressed the man before he had a chance to argue. "I realise that seems unlikely, but stranger things have occurred throughout the Ages. It is a possibility, however slim it may seem."

Varric looked dejected, shuffling over to the ivory sofa and lowering himself down as he reached the obvious conclusion. "…So if the tales can't even agree on where the hell he was _,_ or how he died…"

Dorian walked across the stone floor and joined him, crossing a leg and leaning back leisurely against the soft cushions. "An unfortunate side-effect of trying to erase the man from history… There are known to be quite a few stunning replicas on the black market, if that means anything to you," he offered hopefully. "There's a chance someone in your network has come across them before, or knows how to acquire one."

Varric was unconvinced by this and shook his head slowly, rubbing the stubble on his chin roughly with a gloved hand. "No… that won't cut it," he muttered gruffly, appearing quite disheartened. "I've already given her nothing but fabrications in the past, and I'm not about to try to pass off another fake to her. She deserves the real deal from me this time."

Clicking his tongue and bobbing the foot crossed over his leg, Dorian pressed his lips to a fine line and gave the dwarf a look laced with sympathy. "I'm terribly sorry that it didn't work out, Varric, but it's enough that you thought to give the woman something so meaningful. You'll be the first to know if we find anything else, but as it stands, this is where we are," the Tevinter put forth the smallest hint of consolation.

Varric stood again and walked back to the halfway point between both companions, shrugging off the conversation in favour of lighter discussion. "Don't worry about it. It was a long shot; I knew that going in... Anyway, I was hoping you'd come along to play a few hands later in the tavern. I was thinking after dinner would suit everyone. So far I've got the Kid, Hero, the Seeker, Buttercup, and Tiny, but I was hoping to get as many as I could along for this."

"Ah," Dorian brightened at the idea, a soft smile gracing his lips, "a bit of 'rest and relaxation' is in order, is it? Sure, why not? It would make a nice change, for once; we only ever seem to face death and destruction when we're all in the same place."

"Hey, no promises there won't be any tonight, either," he laughed. "Especially if you plan on doing any of your infamous card tricks, Chuckles."

Solas had been lost in thought for the duration of the last of their disheartening report. The artefact had captured his thoughts until now, and it gave him no amount of comfort to end things here, the issue not quite resolved for him, but as they waited for an answer, the growing silence brought his attention back into the fold. "Hmm? Oh. I apologise, I was just… What was the question?"

Varric held his hands up from his sides invitingly. "You joining us for a game tonight? Come on, this'll be good for you."

He was nowhere near in the mood for cards. Wholly disquieted, Solas shifted awkwardly and looked away, his thoughts still thoroughly plaguing him. "…I think perhaps I shouldn't," he attempted to decline the invitation politely. "I might retire early. There are a few things I must do here in the meantime."

The dwarf threw him a knowing smirk. "If you were planning on spending the evening with the Inquisitor, I was going to ask her, too, so you might as well just come and see her there."

Dorian straightened and arched a dark brow in Solas' direction. "And if she refuses on _your_ account, I'll kick her door down and drag her there, myself!"

"That's the spirit, Sparkler."

Making his way around the desk, the elf sat on his upholstered chair and leaned against the high back, hands resting uneasily on his thighs. "The Inquisitor will enjoy a night spent with close friends. I do not wish to monopolise her time more than I tend to, and this will also give me some time alone to…" He searched for the words on the tip of his tongue, but his mind was so preoccupied with other worries that they eluded him momentarily. At last, he finished, "…To consider your request, Master Tethras."

"Eh, that's alright," Varric shrugged, letting the issue go. "From what Hero said, you'd probably wipe the floor with us, anyway. Oh, I almost forgot! Did the Herald tell you? He's waiting for you in the barn. He won't come out until you fix his beard, and I need him for the game tonight, so could you sort that out for him?"

"Of course," Solas rose from the chair, smoothing the wrinkles from his knitwear with a hand before offering a slight bow. "I'd be happy to assist in any way I can."

"What?" Dorian piped up at that. "You're going to reverse all our hard work? Well, Bull won't be pleased with that. He hasn't humiliated the man to his sick satisfaction, yet." Peering frankly at the elf's bald head, he shook his own in utter confusion. "Do you know some class of spell that can grow hair, Solas? Why not use it on yourself?"

Tactfully ignoring the last jab, Solas gestured toward the doorway to the main hall humbly. "Would you like to come along and observe, Dorian?"

Without a second thought, the mage rose and made to follow the man out to the barn. "Well, for academic reasons alone, yes! I'd love to! You know, I can think of a hundred ways in which a spell like that could come of good use in my arsenal…"

"Excuse me, I believe I misheard that, my friend. In your what?"

"Oh, kindly piss off, Solas…"

**~oOo~**

Hours later, the sun set quietly over the courtyard, pulling the dark blanket of nightfall over the grounds, all routine hustle and bustle of the keep turning in for the evening. Cassandra exited the armoury, the door unintentionally slamming at her back. She must have left the upstairs window open, but she shrugged it off instead of doubling back to secure it. Hugging her arms around her for warmth against the chill setting in, she stole a glance around the vicinity for Varric, but couldn't locate him for now. Her brow furrowed as she stepped around the sparring pen, making her way anxiously to the tavern door.

Rethinking her decision, this was probably a terrible idea. She was no good at cards, especially when it came to bluffing. Calling bluffs was another story, but that wouldn't matter if she couldn't even interpret her own hand. And judging by the raucous nature these games usually led to, it would be wiser to turn around and simply pretend she had fallen asleep instead of joining in. Pausing in her walk, she cautiously cast a glance back, wondering if she should close the window in the armoury and call it a night before Varric had a chance to notice.

"Cass! I'd heard you were coming, but seeing is truly believing, as they say."

She tried not to appear as startled as she internally felt at the unexpected sound of his voice, and nodded her hesitant greetings to Dorian. "Who is 'they'?"

"Oh, clerics, probably," he shrugged with a raise of his dark brows as he walked the short distance to her side. "Did you bring enough coin to lose?"

She grunted disdainfully, knowing with almost all certainty that it was too late to turn back now. "I cannot remember the finer points of Wicked Grace, but yes. I _intend_ not to lose it all, however."

Stepping forward to open the creaking door, she stopped suddenly when Dorian's hand flew forward and held the handle in place, preventing her from turning it. " _So_ ," he muttered in hushed tones, a grin gracing his lips then that made her panic slightly, "you and _Varric_? _That_ was rather unexpected!"

"No," she scowled, realising belatedly that there was another reason why she was so nervous about attending this gathering. Cole had given her every reason to fear this earlier, even if she was only now grasping the implications of her love life being public knowledge. "Do not start with me, Dorian. Just let me try to enjoy myself."

"Ah, but from what I understood, you _are_ enjoying yourself!" Noting her blatant death glare, he moved his hand to the centre of the door and smiled reassuringly instead. "Lucky for you, for once I'm not too keen to hear the details. I just wanted to say I'm happy for you both, that's all. Don't worry, I'll say no more about your 'little' affair." With nothing more to add, he pushed gently on the wood and ushered her inside. Taking a deep breath in finality, she steeled herself and stepped into the warm tavern, subconsciously searching once again for Varric in order to soothe her flighty nerves.

Herald's Rest was as vacant as she'd ever seen it at this hour. Even Cabot wasn't behind the bar, instead entrusting his tavern into the hands of the Inner Circle, of which there were only three seated at the long table in the centre of the ground floor. The Iron Bull sat at the end closest to the door, and beside him were the usual barflies, Blackwall and Sera, though Sera was the only one at an angle to catch their entrance, the other two with their backs to them.

"' _Eyyy!_ " Sera raised her large mug of beer in their direction rather unsteadily. "The ladies of the hour are 'ere!"

Turning slightly, Bull waved them in jovially. "Hey, guys. Cassandra, meet Drunk Sera," he gestured with a hand toward the elf, now slumping on her arms against the wood surface. "Don't know if you've had the pleasure."

"Who hasn't?" Dorian smiled, crossing his arms over his chest as he walked to the other end of the table. "I thought this was her natural state."

"Yer just jealous 'cos I can still land an arrow between yer eyes like this," she practically shouted back, unable to control the volume of her voice. Clearly she'd been drinking for several hours already, which was wholly unsurprising.

As the Seeker's eyes wandered over the empty seats in indecision, Dorian patted the chair next to him at the head closest to the fire. Of course he'd chosen that seat. He never had quite acclimated himself to the southern chill. "Come sit with me, Cassandra dear. I'll protect you from these mangy ruffians." Relieved not to have to make a decision herself, she followed suit and plunked down, pouring herself a pint from the pitcher.

"Who you callin' mangy, ya big powder puff?" The archer finally registered his mild insult.

Leaning back comfortably, Dorian raised a sceptical brow, a smirk forming beneath his combed moustache. "Have you even bothered to brush your hair today, Sera?"

"I don't see wot that's gotta do with anythin'," she shook her head, burying her face in her mug. Coming back up with foam on her upper lip, she mumbled mockingly, "'Ave you shaped yer _eyebrows_ , Tevinter?"

"Why, yes," he smiled, smoothing them with his little finger. "This morning _and_ just before tea. Does it show?"

Cassandra had kept her head down for most of their exchange. She was unaccustomed to meetings such as these with her cohorts, and as such was finding relaxation somewhat difficult. Perhaps after an ale or two she would loosen up enough to join in on the playful banter. Sparing a glance to the other side, she did a double-take at one person in particular, eyes lighting up with surprise. "Blackwall," she blurted, unable to help staring at his face. "I'm relieved to see things have improved for you. I will admit, I much prefer this look to the other one."

His head turned toward her as she spoke, and a soft smile hit him as he lifted a calloused hand to his newly regrown beard. "Oh, yeah, almost forgot about that. Did the trick, didn't it?"

Scoffing, Dorian threw a hand up and shook his head in bafflement. "You think he looks _better_? I argued for _ten minutes_ with Solas not to go through with it!" Narrowing his eyes critically, he pursed his lips at Blackwall. "You were _far_ more dashing without that unkempt badger strapped to your chin! _Fasta vass._ If you _insist_ on keeping that thing, at least make an attempt to _groom_ it once in a while."

Brushing away suds from said unkempt badger, the warrior chuckled deeply. "I wouldn't count on it. I'm not up to your standards, and probably never will be. Don't much care to be, either."

Dorian let out an exasperated groan as Iron Bull grimaced in annoyance. "Eh, I'm still pissed off," the qunari grumbled. "Omitting information isn't _technically_ lying, but you still owe me for that shit, Blackwall."

"Well, see if you can claim the rest of my coin before I literally hit the hay, tonight. That should square everything between us." Grinning, Blackwall leaned forward teasingly. "Anyway, I thought _Ben-Hassrath_ knew all there was to know about everything! What's that say about you, lad? Are your skills drying up, already?"

The Seeker thought she caught Bull's one good eye twitch at that, and he grumbled further before downing the contents of his mug in one impressive gulp. Returning to her own ale, she knew she'd have to drink fast if she wanted to keep up with the pace they were setting out for her.

"'Ey, Cassandra?" Sera suddenly shot up as the Seeker drank her fill, eyelids drooping. "Wot kinda drunk are ya?"

Pausing before another sip, she raised her mug in frank indication. "I haven't _had_ a drink, yet, today, Sera. This is the first one."

She blew out a raspberry before rolling her eyes. " _No_ , _dummy!_ I mean like, are you an angry drunk, giggly drunk, flirty drunk, punchy drunk?"

Catching her meaning, Cassandra took a cautious swig before replying, "I'm fairly certain I could drink you under the table before I even felt the first effects."

The idea of going under the table seemed to excite the elf, a wanton look shining in her eyes, which made the Seeker scoff quietly. "Fancy joinin' me for Several Minutes in Heaven? It's just a bit of fun, don't have to mean somethin'."

"Sera, it's 'Seven Minutes in Heaven'. _Seven_ ," Dorian sighed out the correction. "And you need a closet for that to work."

"Oh, like you know anythin' about bein' in closets! Except for all those frilly clothes, I guess. I'm a bit desperate at the moment – no offence, yeah?" She added as an afterthought, shooting a glance at Cassandra. "Ah, wait, you're _conventional_ , aren't ya? _Shit!_ Your boy toy would probably kick my arse if I tried. 'Ey, wot's 'e like in the sack? Any good or total rubbish?"

It was obvious Sera was incapable of shutting up, and luckily, the two men across the table looked away awkwardly before they could spot the angry blush glowing hot on Cassandra's cheeks. "I see you're the type of drunk who can't mind her own business," she glowered through clenched teeth.

"Says 'Lil Miss Interrogator. 'Least I have an excuse!"

Dorian leaned in his seat toward the woman at his side, mild desperation in his voice as he whispered, "For the love of Andraste, don't answer her. Not one of us has a curious bone in our bodies about that aspect of your relationship."

"I wasn't planning on _sharing_ , Dorian," she muttered back in annoyance, her flush deepening under the heat of the flames at her back. She was definitely regretting accepting Varric's spur-of-the-moment invitation, that morning. "I value my privacy."

"Well, thank the Maker for small miracles," he smirked, patting her shoulder companionably.

"What're you two whisperin' about? …Fine, wotevah," Sera gave up, two hands clasped around her mug to steady herself. "Just ask Varric when 'e gets 'ere. I know 'e saw somethin' back in Emprise du Lion."

The archer was beginning to confound her four friends, eyes darting about the room in a vain attempt to figure out for themselves what she was even getting at. Finally coming back around to her, Blackwall cleared his throat as he fixed her with a humorous gaze. "Sera, who do you think the Lady Seeker's… significant other is?"

Sera pitched forward on the table and giggled, pounding her fist against the surface. " _Pfft!_ You lot don't know?! Shit, I thought _everyone_ knew she was touchin' fuzzies with Cullen! _Cully-Wully_ ," she teased, wagging her thin brows Cassandra's way.

"Commander _Cullen_?!" She gasped, affronted at the lurid suggestion and forcing herself to keep her hands flat against the table. Mistakenly thinking she was about to rise and give Sera a fat lip, Dorian placed a hand on her shoulder to keep her in her chair.

"Yeah! Varric sawr it all go down and told me –" She stopped herself and thought back, shrugging at an unimportant detail she'd remembered. "Well, 'e didn't really come out and _say_ it, but 'is face said it all, right? All pale and stumblin' about… Why're yous lookin' at me like that?! I know wot I'm on about!"

"That makes one of us!" Bull shook his horns from side to side, gathering the empty pitchers and making his way to the bar for refills from the taps.

"Maker, you're embarrassing the poor woman," Blackwall swung a hand toward Cassandra, who sat frozen as she fought desperately to banish impure thoughts of the Commander from her mind's eye. "Leave off her, Sera, or she'll burst a blood vessel before we even get under way."

Sera slouched back in her chair and put her leather boots up on the table, fidgeting with a stubborn tangle in her messy blonde locks. "Wot d'you think 'e says in bed, eh?" she wondered aloud, her bottom lip pouting out as she thought absently. "Sounds like Cullen would be a right good shouter, what with all that barkin' 'e does outside my window all day long."

Cocking his head to the side, Dorian shot the Seeker an apologetic smirk before he straightened, clearly thinking his moment to shine had arisen. Placing his hands firmly on his hips as he leaned forward with a stern look on his face, the mage thundered out the best impression of the Commander that Cassandra had ever heard: _"For goodness' sake, your form is all wrong! Put one leg there, the other behind you! Proper balance is key! Now, go in hard with your right arm! No, your_ right _arm! Maker's Breath, do I have to do everything for you?!_ "

Blackwall sprayed a mouthful of ale in a sticky mist, pounding his chest as he coughed through uncontrollable laughter. As for Sera, she grasped the sides of her chair desperately to stop herself from falling off, lost in a sea of cackles and giddy hiccups. Watching them with wide eyes, Cassandra sat in stunned silence until the infectious laughs threatened to overwhelm her as well, and she elbowed Dorian roughly before practically inhaling the contents of her mug. She wouldn't be able to take much more of this.

"They'd get pretty rough," Bull theorised, trying to keep his sordid grin at bay as he entertained the ridiculous notion and set the pitchers in the middle of the table. "Two tough warriors going head-to-head, if you know what I mean. Watch words would definitely be required to avoid injuring each other – unless that's the point. You never know what gets the quiet ones going."

"Watch words?" Blackwall rasped, his throat still raw from his drink going down the wrong way.

"Yeah, watch words," he nodded as he sat down again. "You can't just say 'stop'. That could get confusing, since it's so easy to say in the heat of the moment."

"Oh," the man nodded. "I never thought about that. You learn something new every day."

Leaning back thoughtfully, Iron Bull steepled his fingers in pensive speculation as Sera topped off his mug shakily, spilling some over the sides as she did so. "It would have to be something you wouldn't shout accidentally. Cullen might say 'phylactory'," he shrugged out the suggestion. "And Cassandra," he pointed to her, keeping the ends of his fingers pressed together, "you'd probably pick something soft, like 'silk' or 'satin'."

"So tell us, Bull: What is Dorian's watch word?" Cassandra pried with a smirk, her curiosity and thirst for vengeance getting the better of her.

Green eyes rounding, the Tevinter shot her a glare before straightening yet again in his seat, a hand raised in warning. "Bull, don't you dare!"

The Iron Bull winked at his lover, a slow smile spreading over his face. " _Stripweed_ ," he said sultrily.

Sera's high-pitched giggle descended on the room once more, and for once, Cassandra couldn't help but join in, shaking violently with mirth. Frustrated, yet hardly surprised, the altus propped his head up with an elbow and leaned on the table, drumming his fingers on the surface as he sighed, "Ah, well, that's just _wonderful_. _Thank_ you, Bull." Noticing Cassandra's odd stare after a moment, he sat up straight and pulled his chair under the table as much as possible to comfortably restrain himself. "What! I'm _allergic!_ Stripweed tea is horrendous for my skin! Ugly welts and laboured breathing, that sort of thing."

" _You,_ Dorian?" Blackwall let out a booming laugh at the image that conjured. "Sores all over your precious glittering skin? I'd like to know how you'd cope with that!"

"Let's not talk about this!" Dorian shouted, blushing profusely just beneath his eyes.

"What are we not talking about?"

They looked up in unison as the dwarf strode in and placed his hands on the back of the empty chair nearest Dorian, whom cried out, "Ah, Varric, perfect timing!"

"'Oi, Varric," Sera jumped in before more could be said, "tell these piss-knobs I'm right!"

Humouring her, he smiled faintly, brows furrowing as he asked, "Sure, Buttercup, you're right. What about?"

Rolling her eyes, Sera was beside herself with aggravation at everyone's propensity to play dumb around her. " _You know_ ," she shifted around aimlessly in her chair, "about Cassandra gettin' 'er bread buttered!"

Completely caught off-guard by this, Varric gripped the chair and grinned unexpectedly at the inebriated elf. "Oh, yeah, the Seeker's _definitely_ …" His gaze drifted to the right, where he caught the unmistakable glower of a wrathful woman aimed directly at him. "…not… buttering anybody's bread. Not that I would know; why would you think I know anything about that?" Uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed, he dismissed the issue with a glib wave of his hand. "Anyway, listen, Chuckles and the Iron Lady are a no-show. I couldn't convince them to join us, but with some subtle manipulation, I managed to get everyone else up for this. I'm about to go fetch the Inquisitor if I can find her, so get your ales and settle in."

As they all nodded and returned to their drinks, Varric leaned in toward Cassandra and, purely by virtue of the seating arrangements, Dorian as well. "They bugging you about us, Seeker? I'm gonna be sitting here all night, if you want to switch seats with Sparkler," he muttered quietly, gripping the back of his chair in indication.

"I'm fine, truly, Varric," she reassured him, knowing that their taunts were nothing she couldn't handle on her own. "Except… I cannot recall how to play this game. Remind me, which is a better hand: A Noble House, or Duke's Gambit?"

He couldn't help the endearing smile that overtook him, and though she felt somewhat patronised by it, Cassandra nearly melted on sight from his adoring expression. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dorian wince, as if cloying at having been caught in the middle of their impromptu mushy stare. Catching this, Varric leaned away mercifully, raising his voice a touch so as not to draw attention to their silent exchange. "Just don't show your hand to anyone, Seeker. When you lay your cards down, I'll let you know what you've got if you look like you need help. I'll be back in a minute with Lavellan; don't start without me." Turning to leave again, he shouted, "Hey, Kid, if you're up there, come on down now! We're about to get started!"

As the dwarf walked off and nodded to everyone present, slipping back out the tavern door, Sera abruptly let loose a sickly groan and waned in her chair, swaying dangerously. "Right, that's me, innit, gone an' lost my chair," she accurately predicted, slipping out of her seat and beneath the table like someone truly dissolving. She moaned for a time before a small _thunk!_ was heard, when presumably she'd collided with the floor.

Cassandra bent over and watched as Sera slumped and fell on her back on the floorboards, completely out cold, and the Seeker sat back up again to find Cole seated calmly next to Iron Bull on a stool seemingly out of nowhere. "Belching, burbling, bubbles in her belly… She's going to be sick," the spirit said, immediately pushing a steel bucket underneath with the side of his boot.

The tell-tale noise of heaving followed, and Cole almost seemed to smile. "That's much better," he sighed as though relieved himself, causing Bull to lift up the boy's large hat and tussle his fair hair before dropping it again.

A light rapping of knuckles on the door brought their attention around as the Commander and the Ambassador stepped in together, one all smiles, the other looking like he'd rather be elsewhere. "Good evening, lords and ladies," Lady Josephine greeted them happily. "I brought the cards! Let the games commence!" She laid eyes on Cole then, her green eyes lighting up as if she was potentially meeting a new person, and chose the seat beside him, the one where Sera had just been sitting. Cassandra decided against mentioning it for now and placed an unopened bottle of red wine strategically under the table purely for the elf's consumption when she regained consciousness.

"Did we miss anything?" It was second nature for Cullen to ask for a debriefing, apparently even in social gatherings.

Cassandra passed down an empty mug to the man, and he slowly filled it with a pitcher, careful to avoid foam. "You do not want to know what was said. _Trust_ me."

"Dorian was just doing his best impersonation of you in the midst of primal conjugal bliss," Bull revealed anyway after a long swig.

Josephine turned her eyes on Cullen, managing to bring a hand to her mouth before a light giggle could escape her lips.

The Commander, however, was less than amused. "…Maker's Breath, I knew I should have retired early. I feel practically exposed."

"Don't expose yourself just _yet_ , Commander," Dorian smirked as Josephine handed Blackwall the deck for shuffling, surreptitiously grazing her delicate fingers against his in the process. "The night is young!"

"I'm going to regret attending this little after-hours meeting, aren't I?"

"Yes," Cole nodded simply, to which the Ambassador then beamed with excitement for the night to come.

Pressing his lips to a flat line, Blackwall clanked his mug against Cullen's in a small toast to open the evening properly. "I suggest you start drinking heavily," he advised the suspicious ex-templar under his breath. "With any luck, you won't remember half of it in the morning."

**~oOo~**

They were all either walking out the side door or tactfully facing the other way for modesty's sake as the now literally exposed Commander raced for the stairwell, his bare ass about to shine in the moonlight as he made for the exit on the second floor and bolted over the ramparts to the safety of his command post. He'd tried to warn Curly that Ruffles was incorporating her skills at The Great Game the whole damned time. It was an excellent strategy, all that pretending to be coy and indecisive. Opening the game by suggesting coppers was a nice touch, too, and added to the perception of naivety she had carefully crafted. If he had to guess how she came up with that strategy, Hero had probably told her all about how Chuckles had managed to swindle him at Diamondback. After all, from the tale he'd heard, it had ended much the same way.

Lavellan smiled and shook her head, waiting until the door slammed behind the poor bastard before breaking out into a smile. He smiled in turn as she reunited with him by the fireside, nodding in satisfaction as he said, "I'm glad you decided to join us tonight. It's too easy to mistake you for the Inquisitor."

"I enjoyed this," she readily admitted as he turned to her, her large elven eyes reflecting the dance of the flames.

"See? That's what I mean," Varric gestured toward her as Tiny finally got up and made for the door, the only one to have personally witnessed the Commander's nude sprint upstairs. "It's easy to forget that you're not just an icon or symbol, like those statues of Andraste holding bowls of fire." Furrowing his brow, he admitted softly, "At least it is for me."

The elf nodded in understanding, looking somewhat dejected herself by the distance her illustrious position often created, even among those she called friends.

Pushing the subject of her unwanted holiness aside that he'd unintentionally brought up in the first place, he asked, "You up for another game when this is all over, Inquisitor?"

"I wouldn't miss it," she replied, beaming from ear to pointed ear. Yeah, she was definitely drunk.

"Good," he grinned, suddenly feeling the weight of the long day on his inebriated shoulders. "It'll take me a while to talk Cullen into it. Maybe I'll work the 'revenge' angle."

As he walked her to the door, thankfully still able to locate it through the haze created by the copious amounts of alcohol swimming in his veins, he distinctly caught the confused voice of a stirring Sera from beneath the table. "Whozat! Did I win?"

"Yeah, you won, Buttercup," he told her with a smirk, holding the door and nodding goodnight to the Inquisitor as she passed. "Can you get back upstairs on your own?"

"I'll help her," Cole assisted, pulling a chair out and taking her hand gingerly. There was a chance she was too blinded by drink to care who was pulling her up, because she didn't try to punch the Kid, instead allowing him to lead her slowly but surely to the stairs.

All told, it had been one hell of a night, and he smiled at his own small victory for organising the whole thing. The merchant prince took a deep breath of the crisp midnight air as he shut the door firmly behind him. Varric reminded himself sternly that Dorian had leaned over at one point to tell him that his books were still on the shelf in the library "in alphabetical order under B, just before Brother Genetivi's compendiums". Deciding against retrieving them now, he made a mental note to buckle down and crunch some numbers in the morning, instead heading to his room for a long, dreamless sleep.

His eye caught the unmistakable gleam of moonlight on metal, and he turned his head, finding the Seeker leaning awkwardly against the armoury door. _Is she too drunk to reach for the knob?_ Grinning at the thought of her being so intoxicated, he switched directions and sidled up behind her. "Hey, was that story you told us about your cousin walking out of the tomb during her own funeral mass _actually_ true?" He opened from a short distance so as not to startle her.

Raising her head in recognition, she turned around unstably, crossing her arms over her armoured chest. "Yes," she replied, forcing control into her voice despite the state she was in. "She was a distant cousin, but I still attended out of respect. Believe me, it is not that rare an occurrence in Nevarra. Commoners that are buried have a string tied to their fingers which lead to a bell on their grave, so that in the event that they are still alive, those above ground will dig them back up." Leaning her head to the side a bit curiously, she blinked a few times and wondered, "Why do you ask?"

He took a step toward her and traced the etching on her chest piece with a wandering finger. "Eh, it's just you'd think the Nevarrans of all people would be able to tell whether or not someone was actually deceased before they were entombed." Looking up to meet her eyes, he sent her the most charming grin he was capable of delivering at this hour. "You know we were supposed to be exchanging _funny_ stories, right? That's gonna keep me awake for hours…"

Cassandra chuckled under her breath. "I suppose the humour _was_ a bit dark… I do tend to forget how sensitive you Free Marchers are," she teased, lightly shoving his hand away.

"Hey," he moved closer invitingly, hoping to coax her mouth down toward his own, "just because we expect the dead to _remain_ dead doesn't make us soft… Our lips, though, that's another story…"

She smiled sultrily, her eyes glittering under the moon as she watched his every move, knowing exactly what he was after. As she eventually began to lean down, Varric closed his eyes expectantly, his lips slightly parted, waiting for the moment her warm kiss finally embraced him…

"Then keep the light on, Varric. Monsters thrive in darkness… I shall see you again in the morning."

His eyes of brandy opening at that, he looked up to find her smiling and turning the doorknob, ready to disappear inside. "Oh, so you don't want to protect me from the dark forces of magic, tonight?" He asked, insinuating with his gruff tone that more than just protecting was on his mind.

Cassandra reached a hand out and stroked the stubble along his jawline. "Perhaps another time," she tormented him by not giving in to his advances. "I was looking forward to getting some much-needed rest, and that would not happen with you around…"

Though he was left wanting, he watched her as she stepped inside, turning to stare longingly at him as she slowly closed the door. He winked at her, biting his lip as he again took another deep breath to fight the hormones surging through his blood. "Night, Seeker," Varric whispered before she lightly closed the door, listening with good humour as she put the latch on to keep him from following.

Perhaps it was for the best, he thought, turning on his heel and making his way over the mud-strewn grounds to his own dilapidated quarters. They were both the worse for wear from travelling and staying up late to drink with friends. A little time away from each other just made their stolen moments together all the more special.

Swallowing hard at a sudden lump in his throat, Varric mulled over that as he walked through the night, the mountain chill biting him even through his scarlet coat _._ If he was being objective, this whole relationship had happened relatively fast, considering he hadn't had a proper one since Bianca was married off – and even then, that could be explained away as young love, but it had still been just as enthralling as this. Still, he was getting older, and the definition of love had aged along with him, wrinkles taking form on what he had once considered an entirely youthful feeling. Biting his lip in pensive thought, he knew this was why he had such a hard time saying the truth out loud to her, though he'd nearly said it twice already. Luckily she hadn't kicked up a fuss about it, yet, but it was going to come up sooner or later. He'd almost forced himself to say it on the rooftops less than a week ago, but fate had intervened. Wouldn't most Andrastians call that a sign?

Maybe it looked too fast on the surface of things, but these emotions had been brewing for ages, now. And he tried to convince himself of that fact, yet again he couldn't bring himself to say those three simple words that he knew would mean everything to her… But they were anything but simple for him. Though he was a man of many words and could set the details of a scene perfectly on paper, Varric found that he often preferred to dance around the issues in his personal life, burying his own feelings under a veil of secrets, lies, winding stories, and unnecessary embellishments to distract from the truth he felt singing inside. And to do that to a Seeker of Truth was a little pointless, if he was being honest with himself. She was as blunt as he could never be, and none of this would even be happening now were it not for her candidness.

So, yes, he thought silently as he climbed the stone steps to his room, it probably was happening fast, but she had set the pace and he was more than happy to keep up. Cassandra hadn't even hesitated when she'd said that she loved him. _I hate that I love you, you conniving little shit,_ he heard her voice ring through his mind. Okay, she'd said it in her own "Seeker" way, but the words were definitely there. All the gestures and love-making in the world didn't mean much if he couldn't at least bring himself to say it back to her… Right?

His thoughts were jumbled, too muddied by ale to have a cohesive narrative going. What was he even getting at with all this? Maybe he just needed to sleep on these musings until something resembling an actual point pushed him in the right direction… or maybe he needed a sign to spell it out for him. A _real_ sign…

He passed into the shadow cast by the stone of his usual quarters, reaching into a hidden pocket sewn into his coat beneath his belt for the key –

When movement to his right made him leap back in surprise.

Varric placed a hand over his racing heart and doubled over, thinking for a moment that he might be sick. "Holy shit, Chuckles, you scared the _pants_ off me," he gasped, fighting to breathe steadily as the elf rose from the floor, where he had been waiting silently against the battlements. "I thought you'd called it a night! What are you doing just sitting here in the dark?"

Solas moved carefully, watching his footwraps as he gave the dwarf a degree of space. "I apologise for startling you, Varric. I was unaware of how long you would be, so I did not want to waste precious lamp oil."

Utterly taken aback by Solas' presence outside his room, he managed to straighten and take a few more needed breaths, shaking his head in bafflement. "How long have you been waiting? It's cold as day-old shit out here."

The apostate effected a small smile then, either at what he would say or to put Varric at ease. "Long enough to witness the Commander fleeing to his post in naught but his skin," he answered quietly. "As for how long I remained here before then, that is of no concern. I assure you, I was quite comfortable to wait." His mannerisms seemed to freeze up at that, and he looked down, squaring his shoulders in preparation of something. "Well… That is, after much quiet deliberation."

The abrupt scare and subsequent unease coming from the elf was enough to sober him up almost entirely, and he narrowed his eyes, growing wary and concerned all at once. "Deliberation of what, exactly?"

Solas met his eyes, equally as narrow, though Varric didn't understand what he would have to be concerned about. At last, he clarified, "Your request for the artefact of the disciples."

"…Oh." He was stunned to hear Solas had still been thinking about that, believing the matter had been already settled almost twelve hours ago. "You didn't have do to that," he mumbled, studying him for a while. The man was a puzzle in and of himself sometimes, but his presence here regarding the artefact must have meant something positive. "Did you find anything else?" He asked, suddenly encouraged again, but desperate not to get his hopes up. If anything, their talk earlier had taken the wind out of his sails, and it would be foolish to believe that would change much.

Hesitating for a handful of seconds, Solas appeared to weigh Varric's words before reaching down to his belt and bringing forth a small burlap bag, which looked unremarkable and worn around the edges. "In a manner of speaking…"

After a moment longer, he at last stopped cradling the bag in his hands and held it out for Varric to take. Unsure of what else to do, the dwarf untied the tattered rope woven around the neck of the sack and opened it, reaching in until his hand touched something faintly metallic.

"No way," he breathed, stepping quickly and purposefully into the bright moonlight before taking the object out for inspection. In his calloused hand he found what looked to be a shimmering gold necklace, the chain thin and delicate, bearing the pendant of a sun radiating golden flames…

The Holy Symbol of Andraste.

"…Is this… Is this what I think it is?"

The elf clasped his hands behind his back and walked with gentle steps to his side, the moonlight softly catching the sheen of his head. "If you're thinking that this is one of the ancient relics you were in search of, then yes. It is."

He was breathlessly shaking his head in total disbelief, unable to process through his shock that he was really holding what Solas had confirmed he was. "…How did you get your hands on it?"

It was obvious Solas had known the question would come up purely out of interest, though he still faltered when it came time to answer it. As Varric continued to stare at the object in his hands, his friend at last found the will to respond. "…In my journeys, I have uncovered much of what was lost through the veil of time… The relic just so happened to be one such thing that was… revealed to me. I have carried it with me ever since."

As if the necklace wasn't unbelievable enough, his explanation of how it came to be in his possession surpassed it completely. "You just so happened to have what I was looking for the whole time? That's… weird."

Solas' eyes smiled, even if he didn't quite complete the expression. "I'll admit, I was mesmerised by the coincidence, myself…" Growing serious again, he explained, "When I heard you were in search of one, it was my hope that I would be able to locate another for you. Failing that, I was then conflicted over how to proceed… I've been reluctant to part with it for many years. You see, the necklace you now hold once belonged to the elven commander Shartan. I greatly admire him for his unwavering determination to set things right, to grant his People their long-forgotten freedom by any means necessary… His tale is something from which I gleaned much inspiration… and wisdom."

Varric clutched the necklace in his hand suddenly, looking up at Solas with alarm. "Wait, ' _wisdom'_? Did your Wisdom friend help you find this thing?"

His face fell blank at mention of his old friend, now gone from not only this world, but the next as well, and a bolt of sympathy passed through him at the sad sight. He knew that emotion all too well. "No," Solas shook his head, "it was in my possession long before we first met, but… in fact we did speak of Shartan on many occasions."

The artefact clearly meant something to the elf, and Varric was faced with sudden guilt. "…Chuckles, if it means that much to you, you should keep it," he reassured him softly, placing the necklace back in the sack. "I don't want to rob you of whatever hope this gives you."

Though the dwarf held it out for him to take, Solas took a step back and raised a hand in refusal. "Indeed, it means a great deal… Or at least, it once did," he admitted sombrely. "Believe me when I say I know of the desire living within you, yearning to give the whole world to someone you care for, to see them rejoice in the here and now... One day, if all goes well, I hope to do much the same…" His eyes raising from the stone floor, he fixed his friend with a stare that said less than it should have. "For now, though, this pendant has served its purpose for me, and it is past time it belonged to someone who will again cherish it anew, as I once did. Cassandra will be a worthy bearer of a necklace once belonging to Andraste's most devoted and loyal of friends… I have seen shades of Shartan in much of what she now represents within her Inquisition."

There was no way to express the torrent of emotions Varric was feeling. Clutching the neck of the small bag, he held it firmly in his grasp, unable to find words that could rival the unspoken gratitude of his heart. "…Thank you, Solas. Really, I mean it, I… I don't think I could ever hope to repay you for something like this."

For a moment, he thought he could detect the trace of a tear welling in the elf's eye, but with a blink, the moisture was gone. "You are indeed welcome, Varric, I assure you…" His purpose at the dwarf's door fulfilled, he began to set out for the comfort of his study again. "If you wish to repay me, do so by holding on to Cassandra for as long as I held that ancient relic."

As he turned to watch him leave, Varric couldn't help but wonder.

"And how long was that, might I ask…?"

Pausing in his departure, the elf turned his head only, glancing back over his shoulder as a cold breeze rustled his knitted tunic. The chill made Varric shiver violently, but Solas was unmoving as he at last nodded. "For longer than is wise to admit… Be well, Master Tethras."

And, revealing nothing more, the old elf simply walked away, the mystery of how and why leaving silently with him in the dead of night.

Varric looked down at the bag, kneading tenderly at the contents tucked safely within. With that unexplainable gesture of deep generosity, he had gained the most perfect gift for Cassandra.

Now all he had to do was to figure out the best way to give it to her…

"Well," he whispered to only himself as he pulled the key to his quarters from his pocket absently, "some might call that a sign…"


	21. Confessions of a Shifty Smuggler Type

"No. I _can't_ do it!"

"Sure you can, Kid! All you gotta do –"

"You promised you wouldn't ask me to do it again. Last time you said it would make her happy, but she was angry. _Very_ angry. I-I-I can't!"

The boy was pacing back and forth in the lower courtyard, hugging his elbows protectively, conflicted with his desire to help and the worrisome idea of a repeat of the last attempt. Cole had a point; it hadn't gone over too well when Varric had convinced him to do this once before, even though he'd been just as reassuring about the outcome then. "Hey, she didn't _stay_ angry, right? You're the only one who can do it and not get caught. I _need_ you on this!"

He shook his head in mild distress, hunching his shoulders ever further. His breath came out ragged, lips turned down in a deep frown as he turned and walked the same line for the umpteenth time. "It's her personal space, her private place. I pay the price for putting it there. It's only fair. Only fair…"

Varric stepped around the pool of mud to stop Cole in his tracks, raising his hands in a surrendering gesture. "If that's the only thing holding you back, then if she asks, I'll tell her I did it and leave you out of it. I'm used to taking the punches from her, anyway."

The Kid's pale eyes widened. "You would tell a lie?"

He waved a hand dismissively, as if the accusation was no more than another buzzing fly amongst the others swarming the air near the stables. "It's not _technically_ a lie. You're acting on my behalf, so I bear all the responsibility. Besides," he smiled encouragingly, "what I've got in store for her _has_ to make her happy. I promise everything will be alright, Kid. I wouldn't be asking you now if I wasn't sure."

An uncomfortable moment passed as Cole stared at him, his focus boring into him as if Varric was still talking – and maybe he was in a way, if the spirit was reading his thoughts for the truth. A soldier passed and eyed the merchant prince in puzzlement, but Varric only nodded in the man's direction, wondering if he assumed the dwarf was talking to himself in full view of the keep's residents. But that was exactly why Varric needed Cole. No one would see what he was doing, becoming curious enough to pick up the items he left behind.

"Okay, Varric," Cole nodded at last in agreement. "I'll help you…"

"Good – good, Kid, that's great. Thanks, I owe you one," he sighed, relieved he wouldn't have to ask Buttercup as a backup. "Do you have a way to tell time?"

Cole's gaze shifted in uncertainty, confused by the question. "What do you want me to tell it for you?"

"Uh…" Varric raised a single brow, shaking his head to quickly dismiss the odd idea presented. "Never mind." He placed his hands on Cole's arms and turned him around, pointing at the sky in indication. "When the sun hits right about there, and you can smell supper cooking in the kitchens, that's your signal to come find me and take the stuff. Alright?"

Cole nodded in understanding, staring at the sun as if it did him no harm whatsoever to look directly at it. "What do you want me to do until then?"

"Whatever you want. Just don't tell anyone. Especially the Seeker."

"Okay." Having all the information to hand, the young spirit sidled away to once again go about his spirit business, walking up the stone steps toward the sparring yard.

At that moment, as if she had been attracted to them by merely being spoken of, Cassandra appeared on the stone landing. When she greeted Cole as they passed by one another, the boy froze in fear for a moment before quickly retreating, causing the Seeker to turn suddenly and watch him depart with haste.

"Hey, Seeker," he greeted her tenderly, wary that she might be hung over. "How's your head?"

" _Ugh_ ," she scoffed, reaching his side slowly as she cradled one temple gingerly. "It's clearly disappointed in me for drinking too much."

One of the mounts, a dracolisk, kicked out in obvious displeasure over something to do with its breakfast, and the shriek it made had the Seeker wincing, narrowing her eyes at the fiendish creature. "Sorry to hear it," Varric sympathised with a shrug. "Mine's doing alright."

"Of _course_ it is. You didn't drink nearly as much as usual on such occasions," she readily complained, which he couldn't argue in the slightest. Her lips pursed for a moment before she lowered her arms, resting her hands on her hips. "Speaking of which, that is why I wished to speak with you."

"Oh? Come to congratulate me on my winnings last night?" He chuckled. Luckily he'd called it quits just before Ruffles mopped the floor with Curly.

The Seeker hesitated as she shook her head, unsure of herself abruptly. Realising that she'd come this far, she met his eyes and let it out. "I wanted to know whether it was possible to arrange another night in Herald's Rest. At a later date."

Feigning an injury to his chest, Varric stepped back in a mock stumble, neatly avoiding the puddle of mud behind him. "Why, Seeker, I didn't know you had it in you! _You_ want to plan a _party_? I thought you left that kind of thing for Ruffles to arrange!"

Narrowing her eyes, Cassandra crossed her arms neatly over her chest. "I wanted to do something... _special_ for the Inquisitor. I've been thinking that a celebration with her associates – _friends_ ," she quickly amended before he could do it for her, "would be appropriate after Corypheus is defeated, and… Well, I'd like you to help me arrange it." Clearly seeing the odd look plastered on his face, she took a moment to steal a deep breath and humble herself, not wanting her pride to get in the way of her request. "I don't know the first thing about planning parties, Varric, as you might have guessed. I assumed you would be the one to ask. Or _should_ I have asked Josephine, instead?"

She'd said that as if implying a threat, and though it was weak, it still worked on him. Josephine's idea of a party would likely include a string quartet, inedible hor d'oeuvres, and enough nobility and royalty to make even the Empress blush. "Nah, Lavellan doesn't go for the types of shindigs our illustrious Ambassador hosts, so you're better off asking me. If friends, food, and fun are on the menu, I'd be more than happy to lend you a hand."

"Good." She nodded for an unnecessarily long period of time, pretending to have an interest in the day-to-day bartering taking place at the stalls rather than say anything more. But she didn't seem to want to leave quite yet, either, instead preferring to stand near him – that's how he _interpreted_ the situation, in any case.

Disguising the smile his speculations brought forth, Varric looked up to catch her stare, a seductive glint in his eye. "Is that all you came here to say…? Or should we just forego the talking?"

She knew that look. He'd held the same flirtatious expression before she'd gone to bed last night, and the Seeker gave in just as easily now as she had then. "I have work to do, Varric," she informed him in hushed tones. "So do you. Unless you're still avoiding it."

Though her words attempted to shut him down, the tremble in her voice betrayed a certain longing for intimacy that he couldn't help but notice. "All work and no play makes Cassandra a dull girl," he smirked, taking a cursory glance at the civilians around them before inching toward her, brushing his broad shoulder against her side to steal the briefest touch of his body against her own in full daylight.

Cassandra kept her eyes averted, yet didn't take the opportunity to step away, either. "I've played with you plenty, and all it's given me is a _headache_ ," she commented dryly. "On more than one occasion."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure I've given you a lot more than that…" Whether he'd subconsciously decided to see what he could get away with, or was testing her boundaries on public displays of affection, he wasn't altogether sure. All he knew was that he'd arched his neck ever so slightly, leaning his face toward her inviting chest, his smile broadening.

Fighting a vicious blush that overtook her face, she finally decided to take a small step back in retreat. "I… am needed elsewhere," Cassandra floundered, looking for an excuse to end their conversation – and whatever he was doing to her physically.

He gave Cassandra a knowing wink. "You're needed right here," he replied with a bite of his lower lip.

"Morning, you two."

Varric reflexively stepped away as he turned toward the deep barrel of a voice at his back. "Hey, Hero," he blurted, his voice pitching absurdly. Clearing his throat of the awkwardness that seemed to burrow itself there, he waved his hand before Blackwall could continue about his business. "Don't run off; I need your help with something. Hey, I'm not done with you, yet, Seeker," he grinned wryly at Cassandra, noticing her blatant steps toward the main hall.

"It will have to wait until after the war council," she called back, turning away and making for the stone steps in a rush.

Disappointed that the moment was lost, Varric gave up with a shrug and watched her go. "Alright, then! I'll be seeing you later; that's a promise!" Shaking his head with a rueful chuckle, he joined the bearded warrior as he sauntered back to the barn.

Following him inside, he waited as Blackwall checked the varnish on a rocking chair he had been busily completing for one of the elder enchanters in the mage tower in order to rest his old bones comfortably. He inspected the wood and grimaced as he pulled off a fly by the wings that had gotten its legs stuck and subsequently drowned in the drying wood stain.

"What do you need, then?" Blackwall asked curiously, side-stepping any small talk and critically eyeballing the piece for one last inspection.

With every minor step he took toward his plan, Varric's innards tied themselves in tighter and tighter knots, and now was no exception. He hadn't even begun the main part yet, which would need to be finalised before supper if he was going to get this right. Still, the finer details of his scheme had to be carried out to make room for the main event. "You know how you get all those flowers for Ruffles and put them in nice little arrangements? I've seen them on her sideboard in her office, and they catch my eye every time. It's really impressive stuff."

Somewhat bewildered for a moment, Blackwall placed his hands on his hips as he made his way over to Varric through the scattered hay. "Yes? What about them?"

The dwarf affected an embarrassed smirk. "Yeah, so… where would I go about getting my hands on some? I need about four bundles-worth, but I'm no good at the whole 'bouquet' thing. Or the hunting and gathering part."

A slow smile spread beneath the jet black beard, and he slapped Varric's back in camaraderie, walking out of the shaded barn and toward the main gate with his half-sized friend in tow behind him, the guards nodding to them as they strolled out of the fortress. "Come on. I'll show you my spot."

**~oOo~**

The grove just outside Skyhold appeared through the trees after a ten-minute trek through the snow, and he waved his hands as if in greeting to the evergreens, taking in a deep breath of the clean mountain air they provided. There had always been something special about the outdoors for Blackwall. Though most of the region was cloaked in thick white blankets as far as the eye could see, this area remained shielded from the worst of the elements at high altitudes, and the thin layers of ice on the nettle branches dripped cold droplets on them as the sun cleansed the area with warm, mid-morning rays. His little find sported magnificent views that even the ramparts couldn't quite achieve with their stony structures marring the grand scenery. Here, he felt most at home in himself. And it was here that he often gathered blossoming embriums, delicate crystal grace, and sweet-smelling honeysuckle for the Lady Ambassador, gifting her with a taste of the heavens that he had always cherished as much as he now cherished her from a distance.

Today, though, he shared his secret with a friend in need, graciously providing the very best Skyhold had to offer in the way of romance and nature at its most wild and beautiful.

Selecting a vine of crystal grace to start off a flattering bouquet, Blackwall took out his pocket knife and cut low on the stem to allow for finer trimming later. Varric wordlessly followed suit, flicking his own knife free as he carefully did likewise. It was a quiet moment they enjoyed, the stillness filled only by the twittering of jays and robins nesting in the trees above them, and the warrior relished the peace for what it was: a place removed from time, away from the hells looming all around daily.

"This is a cosy little spot," Varric reluctantly broke the silence while focusing on his task. "I usually stick to city streets, but I can see the appeal for a guy like you."

Blackwall approved of his friend's musings, but didn't offer a nod, too concentrated on cutting the vines. "City streets don't offer the kind of freedom a place like this does. A man can be whoever he wants out in the wilderness. Or nobody at all. He can be lord of the land, or disappear forever to live life as he sees fit, and either way the trees don't judge him. The only thing that matters is that it's up to him to decide."

After Varric's low hum of agreement, the two fell into a companionable silence once more, mindful not to gather too many flowers from the same plant as they spread out in search of complimentary wildflowers. These would surely please the Lady Seeker.

That _was_ the reason for being out here, Blackwall assumed, and a sad smile touched his hairy lip. Here the dwarf worked in a labour of love for the woman who had captured his heart, and though he had done the same many times a week when they were stationed in Skyhold, his own feelings could never amount to more between himself and the rare Antivan jewel that was Josephine Cherette Montilyet.

It was an odd fit, Varric and Cassandra being an exclusive item. He'd always pictured the carefree roguish storyteller as the wayward lover of a variety of women, all likely attractive young villagers whom readily threw themselves at a handsome stranger in town who regaled their local tavern with tales of foreign kingdoms and the high seas. Passionate one-time romances, non-committal to the end; that was the sort of life Blackwall had envisioned Varric living to this point, and even long into his twilight years. Instead, he'd surprised everyone by falling for a singular person, one so far removed from that simple peasant lifestyle, experiencing courageous adventures the likes of which Varric had only written about in his wildest stories. Maybe that's why his friend had fallen so quickly for her: Cassandra was adventure itself, a living, breathing epic… and the thrill-chasing dwarf couldn't resist having an adventure of his very own.

"Do you think this is insane?" Varric's hoarse voice cut through his silent musings. Looking up from the honeysuckle, he caught the look on the warrior's face before he averted his eyes. Apparently their minds had wandered down the same path without knowing it. "The Seeker and me, I mean… I did some thinking after cards last night, and I didn't really have the time to think about it with a clear head until now."

Frowning, Blackwall sat near the drop-off for a moment to bind the bushel in his hands with twine. "Of course I think it's mad. We _all_ do, a bit… What's this about? Are you getting cold feet, lad?"

"No, nothing like that, I just…" Varric rubbed at the back of his reddening neck and sighed, bringing his various cuttings over for binding as well. "The whole shitstorm with Bianca the other day kinda put a lot of things into perspective for me. I've been trying to explain to myself what's going on, but I'm stuck. I need a second opinion."

"Alright. So what you're saying is you need to get something off your chest, but because it concerns Bianca, you can't talk it over with Cassandra," he spoke plainly, pausing in his task to hear him out.

"Not yet, anyway," Varric winced, knowing how that possibly came across. He lowered himself to the soft overgrowth, one elbow propped up on a bent knee. "See, I'm a lot older than I was when Bianca and I…" It seemed he was still struggling to put a voice to his many thoughts, but the warrior waited patiently for him to extract the troubling idea from his mind. "I'm having… problems in certain areas when it comes to this stage in a relationship that I didn't have, before."

Blackwall's spine stiffened, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, the gruff sound echoing in the distance. "Oh. _Right_. Uh…" He hadn't envisioned their conversation leading to something so personal, not to mention intimate. "Have you tried… asking the healers for supplements, or… longer foreplay, or –"

"Andraste's ass, Hero, not _that!_ I'm doing just fine in _that_ arena, thanks."

He felt woozy as he released a heavy sigh of relief. "Oh, thank the bloody Maker," he leaned back, closing his eyes in a prayer of immense gratitude. "What are you on about, then? Out with it, before my mind starts picturing things it really shouldn't."

"I'm talking about… the 'L' word," Varric clarified, his shoulders sinking under a complicated emotional burden. "I can't talk to Cassandra about it because she wouldn't understand. _I_ don't even understand. And she'd probably kick my ass for being such a damned coward… Shit, maybe I am."

A deep worry line formed between the man's black, bushy brows. "Well, don't say you love her unless you really mean it. Easy enough, right?"

He shook his head, mildly disturbed as he rubbed his weary eyes. "That's the thing: I do mean it. I'm not getting any younger, and these are some pretty dangerous times we're living in. _Anything_ could happen. I should say what I feel while I still have the chance… But every time I try, my throat closes up with… fear, I guess is what it is."

Thoroughly surprised, Blackwall set the flowers on the ground between them and looked his friend dead in the eye. "What have you got to be afraid of, Varric? That she doesn't feel the same? I've noticed how she looks at you these days, and there's a distinct lack of murderous rage in her eyes. If that's not love, I don't know what the fuck is." He managed to draw out a slight chuckle from the dwarf, and he was glad for it. Maybe if the lad relaxed a little more, he'd find it easier to express himself.

"I _know_ she feels the same. Hell, she's already said as much, and I've done everything but say it back." Varric hesitated, glancing quickly at the man before returning his gaze to the flowers, gesturing toward them as an example of the lengths he was going to display his affections without having to actually come out and verbally express them.

Thinking back to their conversation in the Emerald Graves, Blackwall ventured a guess as to the main concern. "Are you still worried about a relationship with the Lady Seeker on account of what your enemies might do with the information?"

"…It's a little of this, a little of that." He sat up, resting both arms on his knees as he stared out over the serene mountainside at the high peaks in the distance. "Mostly, though, the thing is… I like to think of myself as a lady's man for the most part, but that wasn't always the case." His eyes glazed over slightly, and he began to speak of things he'd kept hidden for several years. "A long time ago, when I was young and naïve about this kind of shit, Bianca was the first girl I ever had real feelings for. We'd sneak off together, doing what teenagers do when they're invincible, rebellious, and drunk off hormones. And as far as I was concerned, it was true love. So, one fateful day I just up and told her how I felt, no holds barred… and she said it back right away, not even missing a beat. We were elated. Even talked about marriage and kids and shit. It was the happiest moment of my life, up to that point."

Picking at the long grass, he threw the deep green blades aside in frustration. "And as luck would have it, the _very next day_ , my mother got a letter from her father telling her to keep her no-good son away from his virtuous daughter. Said he'd kill me if I threw a wrench in his plans to marry Bianca off to 'Bogdan Vasca'. That was the first I'd ever heard of whatshisname, and not heeding my brother's advice, I stole away to her father's house that night and climbed up to her window. She was in turmoil. Apparently, she'd just been told about the whole thing, too… You could see it in her eyes," he said as if they were preserved perfectly in his memory, like it had only happened hours ago. "She was trapped. And we both knew it."

Blackwall listened intently, his arms folded over his chest and shaking his head at the very idea. It wasn't unheard of in some parts for parents to arrange their children's marriages for family or clan alliances, and he'd heard enough to assume that dwarven culture down in Orzimmar often dictated the same, if not more, for their own nobility. What was odd was that a family of ex-noble surfacers still insisted on living under those traditions, even when they were no longer bound by them. "Don't kids in love usually run away to be together forever when faced with something like that?"

Varric accidently let slip a rueful laugh, looking upward as if asking the Maker why he hadn't thought of that very thing. "We would have been hunted over every corner of the map. She's a Davri, a Smith Caste; I'm a Tethras, Merchant Caste. Two influential families with enough money and connections to drag us back home in less than a day after absconding with the good silver… It's an old tale: star-crossed lovers, destined to be kept apart by forces beyond their control. Those never have happy endings, but that didn't stop me from trying… Right then and there, in her father's house, I _swore_ to Bianca that I would never leave her, no matter what her family did to me. At that, she started to cry. I thought I'd loved her before… But my love for her grew stronger then than I'd ever felt for anyone."

He looked over to Blackwall forlornly. "That is," Varric swallowed, his eyes distant, "until now."

They'd all but forgotten about their reason for being here, but the warrior felt this new revelation was more important than the floral arrangements. Coaching him forward, he asked, "So is that why you're so torn up? Because you broke your promise to Bianca?"

Varric shook his head, as if his denial surprised even him. "It'd been over between us for a long time. I was just too stubborn to see it all those years. She changed, thought she had me wrapped around her little finger." He shrugged, admitting, "The truth is, she did. She could get me to meet her wherever she wanted at the drop of a hat. But I think we both changed beyond those dumb kids we used to be. So when I told her it was over, that I'd moved on, it was like finally stating the obvious. But now that she's gone, I feel like I can't…" He shook his head again lamely. "Shit, I don't know _what_ I feel. I'm not really used to this level of introspection. It's new to me; I usually avoid thinking about it, and I shroud it in mystery if it ever comes up, so I've never been in a position to really consider it."

Fitting the puzzle together in his mind, Blackwall began to see where his friend's worries truly laid. It wasn't the enemy looming on the horizon that troubled him, threatening to rip her from him.

Rather, it was the enemy within, the inner demons that controlled him like a hopeless marionette on tangled strings.

"It's hard for you to tell Cassandra you love her because the last time you said it to a woman, everything went from fucking magical to total shit overnight. That's why you won't let yourself say out loud that you love the Lady Seeker, even if they're your true feelings. You're afraid, Varric, that _if_ you do, something will happen to tear you two apart, just like it did last time."

It was as if the Veil itself had lifted, and a whole other world he'd never known was revealed to him. He saw Varric's throat bob as he fought to speak, but he gave up eventually, though it was apparent by his sudden speechlessness that Blackwall had hit the target. The dwarf had never openly talked about his feelings, convincing himself that it was bad luck to ever acknowledge how much he cared for someone, or to even chase that feeling ever again.

"So… am I moving too fast with the Seeker?" Varric finally asked the man, now trusting in his ability to read the situation objectively. "Or am I just looking for shitty excuses to hold myself back so I don't get hurt?"

Sighing, Blackwall turned his body to face the dwarf, placing a hand firmly on his friend's knee as he dispensed his unique brand of advice – advice that he was so unused to giving, for rarely did anyone ask him what to do when it came to love. "I was once a young man with my whole life ahead of me, same as you, but I lost it all due to my own poor judgement. I let that consume me for years, running away from the truth and making myself out to be someone I wasn't just to convince myself and everyone else that I was better than Rainier… After I was confronted with what I had done… what I was doing to myself… I decided to not just _pretend_ to be the man I wanted to be, but to _become_ him. It took days in a dungeon awaiting execution for me to really look at myself and come to that bitter conclusion… These days, now that I'm a free man, I devote my time and energy toward making up for my mistakes in life."

He moved to gather the flowers in his arms. "I'm not saying that's the case for you, too, but these things _do_ have a pattern… You don't have to stop yourself from loving someone new just because it didn't work out with Bianca, Varric. That old love is over and done with, and another one has just started. Let it be new again, and revel in all you can offer each other, come demon or darkspawn. And this time, don't let anything come between you."

Varric pressed his lips to a fine line, sighing to himself as he made to stand up again. "I should really learn to listen better. Chuckles said pretty much the same thing to me last night."

"Did he? Well then." Blackwall smiled, picking up the rest of the flowers they'd gathered before getting up. There was enough here for a few vases, and he'd have to get started on that if Varric wanted them ready for whatever he was arranging. "If Solas agrees, I can't be _all_ wrong, then, can I?"

"You wouldn't think that old burn would screw me up as much as it did, but… yeah… Hey, good talk. Didn't even know I needed it, but I'm glad I got it off my chest." Brushing himself off, the dwarf cleared his throat and reached into his pack, taking out a quill and corked inkwell. "I'm gonna stay here for a while. You've inspired me to write a little, and this is as good a spot as any to get it down on paper before I forget. Oh, and try not to come here after sunset, Hero. I think you just showed me the perfect location for my plans for tonight."

Heeding his warning, Blackwall nodded in farewell and began to walk back through the trees before curiosity got the better of him. "…Varric," he wondered, doubling back and staring at him as he found his parchment, "I'm sure you could have opened up to anyone about this. Why did you pick me?"

The dwarf looked over him sadly for a moment, as if the sight of him provoked a bittersweet memory, but cast his eyes downward at the utensils in hand, avoiding eye contact. "Well, I trust you, just like I do all my close friends… Besides, you… remind me of a guy I used to hang around," he admitted, his voice threatening to crack under the strain. "I'd have told him, but he's not exactly around to hold my hand and help me confront shit like this, anymore."

The revelation hit Blackwall squarely in the chest. Others had noted the resemblance before, but he hadn't thought he was so similar to the Champion that it would cause Varric to treat him like his late best friend. Empathy flooded his bones as he stood leaning against an aspen, thinking of something to say in that regard that might comfort him. "I bet he'd be saying 'round about the same thing as me, if he were here now…" Nodding seriously, he added in finality, "I'm truly sorry for your loss, Varric."

Not knowing what else to do, he turned to walk back toward the gates of Skyhold, hearing his friend's hoarse voice on the breeze:

"Yeah… Me, too."

**~oOo~**

Cassandra Pentaghast left the war room with a foreboding sense of frustration, her nerves fraying over the continuation of further delays. After much gloating from the Ambassador and equal amounts of gritting humiliation from the Commander, once again Josephine had brought up the issue of putting forth a definitive nominee to the Grand Clerics in Val Royeaux. With each reminder the Antivan noblewoman gave the Inquisitor, the two of them grew more and more impatient with each other. Having both the Right and Left Hands of the Divine in the room at the time did nothing to alleviate the tension in the air, both Cassandra and Leliana eager to get the process started. However, Inquisitor Lavellan continued to procrastinate in her decision, pushing the glaringly important issue aside for another day.

 _You_ know _why she is doing this,_ Cassandra thought as she exited the Ambassador's office and stepped out into the main hall, which teemed with people on the wealthier end of the spectrum of Skyhold's inhabitants, ready to pounce on Lavellan once council was dismissed. It was obvious as to why, since the Dalish had already stated her reasoning to the Seeker on her balcony nearly a week ago. She was decidedly _not_ Andrastian, despite the public's insistent claims of her "walking in the Maker's light", and to nominate the next religious leader for a belief system she didn't subscribe to was just as absurd as allowing a serf from Tevinter to elect the next Arishok. Knowing so little about the position and its significance due to there being nothing comparable in her own paganist belief in the Elven Gods, usually anything to do with the Chantry Lavellan relegated to someone else, but this decision was left to be determined by the Inquisitor alone, and she despised having to choose between friends, potentially upsetting whomever didn't make the cut. It was not an enviable task, to be sure.

The most surprising observation upon reaching the outer staircase was how significantly daylight had waned. There were windows everywhere one turned in the War Room, but she'd kept her eyes trained on the table map for so long that she hadn't taken note of how much time had passed while discussing intel, whether it was related to reconnaissance, military strategy, or diplomatic manoeuvring. Sighing as her belly rumbled angrily with hunger pangs, Cassandra descended and made for the kitchens, deciding to take a plate of food to her room and reread the latest instalment of _Swords and Shields_ to remove herself from the stress of once again awaiting news of her fate.

It had been quite some time since she'd cried over the last update, and she felt sometimes that her problems paled in comparison to those of the Knight-Captain and her noble plight. Yes, Cassandra had the fate of the world to contend with, but she also wasn't presented with the brutal task of killing her own lover, who had betrayed her so devastatingly. If faced with the same decision, could Cassandra bring herself to kill Varric?

She laughed audibly at that, much to the sheer surprise of the recruits passing her near the sparring pen. It must have been an unnerving sight for them, the ferocious Seeker of Truth they fearfully respected smiling to herself as she chuckled. Quickly rearranging her features to exude the type of stern seriousness they were accustomed to, she reached the kitchens and buried herself in pensive thought again. Though the idea was laughable, she believed she would have easily done so months, or even weeks ago. Now, the prospect of having to kill him was simply unthinkable. Still, it was helpful to lose herself in the drama of her favourite characters rather than face the true horrors hounding the Inquisition around every corner of Thedas.

The nug and stilton soup on offer didn't smell too appealing, nor did the roasted ram rump perk up her appetite. Somehow the cooks had gotten their hands on wyvern steaks, but the tough, black meat suddenly turned her stomach in spite of the maid's insistence that it tasted of chicken. For someone so hungry, she was being strangely picky. Pushing the main courses aside, she opted for something simpler and easily transportable: a quarter-hunk of hardy, Fereldan bread with a goat's butter spread, a cupful of carrots and peas, and half a pint of bitter beer to wash it all down. They were easy enough to carry to her chambers without much fuss.

Cradling the bread on her left arm, she hooked the cup handles to her fingers so she could take out her key. Sliding the blade into the lock mechanism below the handle, she turned it to the left –

And found, to her complete surprise, that the lock was already disengaged.

Glancing around suspiciously, Cassandra decided in an instant to play it cool. "Oh," she said aloud, solely for the purpose of convincing whomever was inside that she was none the wiser, "I must have forgotten to lock up this morning." She hadn't forgotten, and would never forget to secure her private chambers. The lockpicking thief was in for a shock if they thought they could catch her off-guard.

She turned the handle and kicked the door in, the hard wood swinging violently on its hinges before colliding with the stone wall. Expecting a cry of alarm, she instead heard nothing but the crackling of the fireplace, which she distinctly remembered snuffing out before departing at daybreak. Still anticipating trouble within, she silently inched forward, peering around the door frame and checking for anything else out of the ordinary.

The fire had greatly warmed the room from what it would customarily be at this hour, a cold and dank space in need of immediate rectification. Someone had gone to the trouble of lighting it recently to directly coincide with her return from her duties, for the flames were barely beginning to blacken the underside of the wood, yet. Cautiously curious, she closed the door in order to stop the heat from escaping and moved to stare at the fire, utterly bewildered. Who had done this? Well, whoever it was, they hadn't stayed long, nor had they disturbed the area in search of valuables, of which she had none, save those on her person. Shaking her head, she turned to place her meal on her chest of drawers –

Only to discover the most exquisite crystalline vase containing an attractive assortment of local wildflowers. "What on…" Setting her cup, mug, and bread down next to the unusual display, the pleasant fragrances graced her senses, causing her to take a deep breath involuntarily in admiration. The Seeker touched the velvety petals, thoroughly enchanted yet still somewhat on edge. Romantic or otherwise, she disliked the very idea of anyone breaking and entering her quarters.

Running her hands down the length of the eye-catching centrepiece, Cassandra caught sight of the end of a torn bit or parchment that had been placed under the vase, and she tilted it slightly to slide the note out along the desk. Carefully setting the crystal down again, she picked it up carefully, immediately recognising the unmistakable handwriting, his message written carefully in black ink.

 _Cassandra Allegro Portion Category Phylactory Pentaghast, also known as the sultry Seeker with terminal resting bitch-face,_ he began.

" _Ugh,_ " she jeered, but couldn't help the smile that enveloped her mouth. Covering it as though he was present to witness it, she stole a glance out her window to be sure he wasn't watching her before glancing back down at the note in her hand.

_These are for you. Try not to be too mad about the whole "invasion of your privacy" aspect of this little romantic gesture, or you're not going to be in the proper mood for what comes next._

" _What_ comes next?" She asked the note as if it had any ability to respond to her interrogative tone. Reading on, though, apparently he'd anticipated the question.

_I bet you're wondering what the hell I'm up to. Care to go on a hunt through the keep? First, go to the spot where you first confessed your undying love for a certain charming, irresistible dwarf._

Raising her eyes, she looked around the room in confusion. She was already standing in the place where she had said that, the night before they'd left for the thaig in the Hinterlands. Remembering suddenly that she had been bathing at the time, she hurried over to the tub in the corner of her room by the fire, incapable of stifling her eagerness. Sure enough, the next note lay at the bottom of her steel tub. Cassandra knelt down to reach inside, settling against the wall with her knees tucked up as she held the parchment close to her nose.

_Alright, so you didn't have to go too far for that one; fair enough. Maybe I should make this a little tougher. Before I send you out for your next clue, finish the supper you brought up to your room (Yes, I know you did, and no, I'm not spying on you, Seeker. I just know you better than you think I do.). You're going to need it if you want to keep your stamina up for the grand finale. So, put this down and eat up. The next clue is on the other side of this message._

Resisting the urge to ignore his orders and flip it over, she stood up and walked over to her dinner, taking a generous bite of bread as she stared at his words.

She'd never downed a meal so rapidly in her life.

**~oOo~**

His note had subsequently set her on course for the place where she'd first thrown a chair at his head, which she'd interpreted as the first floor of the armoury. Their fight over Hawke after settling in Skyhold had been so explosive that the Inquisitor herself had needed to break it up. Upon arriving, she had found yet another vase of flowers on the table, this one having consisted of blood-red embriums, with another parchment lying next to it and directing her to the most _recent_ place she'd thrown a chair at him. Maker, she certainly had a penchant for chair-lobbing.

Trying not to race for the foyer of the main hall, she hustled up the stone staircase and passed through the towering doors, immediately turning to her right and spotting even more flowers placed on a small round end table, said chair neatly beside it along with another note waiting for her on the seat. She was joined by a curious nobleman, who happened to stumble upon the inviting piece and nosily rummaged around the table, not knowing he was watched as he plucked a single crystal grace from the vase.

"Stand back," she barked, approaching the table with soldierly haste. The Orlesian (for what else could he be with that ridiculous mask on his face) jumped in surprise and turned instantly, the delicate blue bell flower clutched against his chest in a protective gesture. Towering over him, she glared hotly, holding her hand out expectantly, and without argument he quickly handed the flower over, darting away before she could break his mask over his pompous headwear.

Stepping over to the chair, she picked up the undisturbed parchment and sat down, using a candelabra for light in the normally shadowed corner.

 _You seem to have a knack for remembering where you've attacked me around these parts,_ it read.

"How could I forget," she muttered with unbridled sarcasm, a wry smirk touching the corner of her lips.

 _I know, I know, I had it coming. Besides, I_ told _you to do it, so who could blame you? Ready for the next one? Good. I made this one a bit trickier. Go to the spot where I made a fool of myself. Before you go saying that description covers every square inch of the Frostback Mountains, firstly, "haha", Seeker. And secondly, no. I'm talking about what happened right_ after _this incident with the chair-flinging. I trust that narrows the search area down to about a mile radius. Good luck._

The ledge outside Sera's window. Placing the blue blossom back in the vase, she rushed to the doors and back down the stairs, making her way through the dwindling crowds to Herald's Rest.

The numbers outside might have been thinning, but that appeared to be purely due to the mass migration to the tavern. It had been privately rented out the previous night for their card game, so it made sense that the keep's residents would be making up for lost time. Trapped behind a large group by the door, the Seeker tried to force her way through with little to no success. Moments later, the door reopened and Dorian stepped through, his eyes widening in surprise when he found it difficult to close the door behind him.

Pressed against Cassandra, he laid a hand on her shoulder and attempted to shout over the bustling noise all around them threatening to drown out his words. "So much for a quiet drink with Bull," he lamented ruefully. "Perhaps we can make it _al fresco,_ in light of all this." The Iron Bull could be heard from where they stood, his Chargers cheering loudly in the back corner as they were roused to another of their drunken song renditions, much to the delight of onlookers.

"I need to go up a floor," she explained. "I would usually force my way through crowds like these, but I don't wish to injure anyone!"

"Ah! Then you've come to the right international pariah! Watch with envious wonder as I cast my greatest incantation," he winked, shuffling forward and laying a hand on a pilgrim. "Pardon me, madam. May I come through?"

As soon as the Andrastian pilgrim turned to smile and move aside for the gentleman at her back, she leapt away in unconcealed fright. Those around her did likewise when shifting to see what was occurring. It was as if Cassandra had asked for a simple bridge and Dorian had parted the seas for her instead. "It's him! The necromancer from Tevinter," one of them shook at the knees. Despite the horrified reception, Dorian nodded courteously in turn as he sidled through, even complimenting a man on his knitted scarf – though knowing his true tastes, he either did so for the sake of politeness or for subtle mockery. They instantly spread as though there was a forcefield around the man, and as Cassandra followed in his wake, the opening swiftly disappeared behind her.

"Here you are, Cassandra dear. The stairs, per your request," he smirked, turning away as Bull shouted for the mage to join him.

Before she could hear Dorian moan about the lack of breathable air in the tavern, she raced up to the first floor, grumbling over having to trace the entire walkway before reaching Sera's door. Knocking insistently, she shifted her weight, waiting for an answer. Receiving none, she rapped harder on her second try. Again, nothing. Leaning over the bannister, she squinted at the people below, scanning carefully for an elf with terrible, self-styled hair.

Just then, the door opened at her back, but only a small crack. Sera looked to be severely hung over and not in the mood. "Nuh-uh. Too many folk in an' out of my room, today. Not havin' another."

"Sera, I only want to check the flowers in your room. After that, I'll leave you be."

"Check _this_ ," the archer scrunched her nose, raising her middle finger to the Seeker in defiance.

Spinning on her heel, Cassandra stormed over to a table full of tired recruits and relieved them of a wine bottle, which they barely noticed being summarily taken. Bringing it to the door, she arched a single brow. "Will _this_ change your tune?"

" _Eugh!_ I'll never drink _again!_ " And with that, Sera slammed it shut in her face, the clanking of the chain audible as she slid it firmly in place.

Cassandra narrowed her eyes at the door. She _needed_ that clue. "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way," she threatened menacingly.

"Piss off," came the flippant reply.

 _Fine,_ she thought, _the hard way it is._

Borrowing a move from Varric's playbook, the Seeker turned and moved to the walkway just above the entrance, gripped the railing, and raised one foot over the bar, followed by the other. Timing her drop just as Maryden closed a song, she held tight to the upper floor as she let her legs fall, causing the crowd to cry out as she dangled above them. " _Out of the way_ ," she ordered, and luckily they had cleared the area below before she at last landed roughly on her feet, pushing a path out of Herald's Rest without preamble.

She moved past the scattered recruits fulfilling their orders to tidy up the yard and put away their equipment. It was a long way up to Sera's bayview window, and the gutter pipes were too far away to climb to the spot she needed to reach. Looking around, she spotted a flimsily constructed ladder and hoisted it up, leaning it securely against the roof. Not delaying a moment longer, Cassandra fixed her foot on the bottom rung and pulled herself up, careful to avoid the slippery moss growing on the roof tiles. How had Varric kept his balance up here? It must have taken at least half of his concentration just trying not to fall. The slope was enough to nearly send her sliding back down to the ground, and she had to grab the windowsill just to keep steady. This time, she knocked more violently, the pane rattling precariously as she did so.

The patterned, mismatched curtains parted, revealing the shocked and aggravated elf inside. "Persistent, aren't ya?!" She shouted through the glass, condensation from her breath fogging the window in front of her face. "Wot part of 'piss off' aren't you gettin'?"

Cassandra leaned against the glass like a predator in a menagerie eyeing up prey that it could not yet reach to devour. "You can keep the flowers, Sera. All I want is the note that came with them."

Pursing her full lips, Sera rolled her blue eyes and looked down at the vase of wild roses, finding and picking up a strip of parchment. "Ah, ya mean this here shite," she shouted to be heard, fiddling with the handle in an odd way before pushing the window open slightly. "'Ere. Take it and bugger off before your face gets better acquainted with my arrows!"

Victorious at last, the warrior uttered a sardonic "thank you" before the window shut behind her. Eager to read the note in hand, she buried her face in his inscription:

_How much did you have to pay Buttercup to let you in? Hope she didn't ask for any sexual favours. I might get jealous – that I wasn't there to witness it. Okay, just one more to go, Seeker, and the hunt is over. You know the grove outside Skyhold? In case you're not familiar, just follow the trail of pillar candles once you reach the end of the bridge. And before you get mad, I promise I'll put them back in the chapel when I'm finished with you. P.S.: Bring a blanket or something. I'm probably freezing my ass off right now waiting for you._

Butterflies took wing in her stomach, and she tucked the note away for safe-keeping, looking over to the ladder.

At least she _would_ have, if it were still _there._

"Shit," she cursed quietly. The Commander's recruits had taken it and put it back in storage for the night. Creeping toward the edge, she tried to gauge whether jumping down was possible, but the ground looked too soft beneath her. Varric had twisted his ankle during that stunt, and sustaining an injury now wasn't an acceptable outcome.

There was muffled conversation to her right, the people blocked from view by the wall. "Over here," she called, hoping to catch their attention. "Please help!" As luck would have it, the two men popped their heads around the corner out of curiosity.

"Cass? Andraste's sake, woman, how did you get up there?!" Dorian walked around to view her on her unsteady perch, his head tilted to the side.

The Iron Bull's right eye widened just before narrowing in suspicion. "Wasn't _demons_ , was it?"

" _No_ ," she scoffed, carefully moving toward the edge. "I'm glad I caught your attention. Help me down from this ledge."

Bull moved to stand below the rain gutters, which incidentally needed to be cleared of debris. "You're lucky, Cass; we just got out here. Dorian said he wanted to try _al fresco_ …" His voice audibly grinned at that. She cautiously moved her boot over the side, finding purchase further down on one of his horns, and he grabbed her ankle to keep her upright as she lowered the other.

"I convinced him it was a sexual position from back home," Dorian smiled, reaching his arms up as she sat on Bull's head to help her climb down his expansive torso to the ground.

"It's _not_?" Bull growled heatedly. "Come on, Dorian, that shit isn't cool!"

Cassandra caught her breath for a moment, fighting her embarrassment at having been stranded on the roof, and also for being a part of such an awkward exchange. "Thank you for your assistance," she nodded gratefully.

They stared at her for a long moment, one man clearly confused by the whole situation, the other brushing his moustache to hide his twitching smirk.

"I don't want to know," Bull waved her away, seeing her readiness to leave without explanation. "You just go work whatever that is out. I need an ale."

Blushing, Cassandra nodded to each of them and backed away slowly, waiting until she had disappeared around the side of the tavern before running toward the main entrance.

What would be waiting for her at the grove? She thought of every possibility as she waited for the soldiers to let her through, her heart dancing with anticipation while watching the iron gates lift from the ground.

**~oOo~**

It was a clear, windless night. A chill clung to Cassandra's clothes as she stepped lightly through the trees, and the weather had fared well all day, not a flake of snow slowing her path. The candles burned steadily, their flames strong and tall, and she eyed them in fascination while following the waxy pillars as the gaps between them lessened gradually, until there were groups of two or three every metre. Her heart gripping her and her breath suspended, she was careful not to knock them over as she nudged herself slowly between the lit path and the tree. The path ended here, and she raised her chin to search the grove for him.

"'I've got a confession, Seeker,'" his raspy voice sounded from behind.

Cassandra spun instantly, her brown eyes narrowing a touch as Varric appeared from behind the tree she'd only just walked past, not noticing him silently hidden there. In his gloved hands was a small stack of unspoiled parchment, the ink from his quill the only marks upon them. "'And if we're to die tomorrow, I should probably tell you now'… The cellar was black, the air in his lungs heavy with decades-old dust, trapped behind a locked door while they hid from the city and waited for his smuggler friend to return. Victor couldn't make out the back of his hand let alone the look on Seeker Cristina's angelic face, and he swallowed hard in order to keep his words going…"

The slight glare she held fell blank as realisation dawned on her, staring in what could only be described as shock. She managed to take one step back as he moved with a sauntering gait around her, his eyes on the page. "'Cristi, the minute you walked into The Condemned Man looking for sources all those years ago, I just knew you were going to be trouble. To be perfectly honest, I thought you were bent on killing anyone who stood in your path, and I did my damnedest not to get in your way. But people named names and you tracked me down,'" Varric read on, lifting his eyes to the night before leaning toward her teasingly. "'When I heard your voice for the first time, there were stars in my eyes – mostly due to the abrupt punch in the nose, but there were… _other_ reasons, I'd like to think.'"

Unable to process what was happening, she shoved Varric's shoulder lightly to push him away, and he grinned mischievously, stepping off to look over the side of the mountain. Then he looked back down, ready to continue. "Seeker Cristina nudged him playfully and turned away in the blackness of the Smuggler's Route, flushed at Victor's irrefutably captivating charm. 'Over time,' he whispered in her ear, 'as your little visits for information kept coming, I even started to look forward to catching up, in a twisted, masochistic sort of way.'"

She put a hand up to her mouth, shaking her head in disbelief. Rubbing at the back of her neck, she dared not interrupt his speech.

"'I developed a grudging respect for your tenacity and candour. Until you, I was so accustomed to dealing with gangs or cutthroat criminals that I'd forgotten what true goodness looked like… But I found it again, smouldering in your eyes…'" Varric turned to face Cassandra, taking a knee as he stared up at her with a glimmering hopefulness.

"You can't be serious," she nearly laughed, the amount of effort that he'd put into this evening stunning her completely.

He turned his head slightly and threw her a sidelong glance. "As I recall, your list was _very_ specific, Seeker. It's not exactly _poetry_ , but I've never been too good at that. Trust me, you're better off with this."

"And you think _this_ is better than poetry?" A wry smirk crept over her lips through her flirtatious taunt.

Varric chuckled and slid a quill out from beneath his red silk sleeve. "Hold on, let me just make a quick note in the margins: Seeker Cristina was unreasonably precise about exactly _how_ she desired to be courted –"

Scoffing, Cassandra reached forward and took the draft in her hands, turning away before he could snatch it back, but he didn't even try to reclaim it. Instead, Varric stood to his full height and stepped just behind her, pointing to the paragraph where he'd left off, and she picked it up from there.

"'I'm not confessing to the lies I've told you; Maker knows there are too many to recall in one sitting,'" Cassandra read the words of Victor, glancing up at the dwarf before leaning against the bark of an aspen tree. Yes, of course, _Victor_ was the one saying these things to _Cristina._ She read him loud and clear. "'What I'm saying is that I began to see you as a friend and confidant… Someone I could trust to handle any secret I'd gathered… But there's one more secret I have to tell you…'"

Watching her as she spoke his words gently, Varric began to walk in a circle around the Seeker, but she ignored him for now. "'Cristi, you made me believe that saying and doing what's right in this world is better than just looking out for my own skin. After a life of running away from the darkness, you encouraged me to confront it with bravery. A thieving con like me could _never_ deserve someone as incredible as you have proven yourself to be, time and time again…'"

Cassandra dropped to her knees, settling against the tree as she sat curled beneath its high branches. Her eyes cast downward, she read the last few lines slowly, taking them fully into her spirit. "'I don't expect you to hold anything but derision for me, but if we never made it through this night, I would die regretting that I never told you the truth…'" Swallowing hard, a tear nearly formed in her eye as she registered his last words, unable to read them herself, a hand covering her mouth in shocked delight.

Varric stood behind her shoulder, his hand resting near her neck as he whispered the line: "'I love you, Seeker Cristina,' Victor said, his heart racing… 'More than I ever thought myself capable of feeling again… And if you need to kill me for saying so, then do it now. At least then, I will have spent the rest of my life with the woman I adore far beyond what simple words could express…'"

The breath robbed from her momentarily, Cassandra turned her head toward him so her scar met with his stubble in a soft graze. The passage ended there, the bottom half of the parchment empty and waiting for the rest of the story. "…What does Cristina say to him in return?" She wondered, her voice rising to a girlish pitch.

Varric kept his eyes on her as she turned to face him, brows coming together thoughtfully as he met her unabashed stare. "…I don't know," he answered truthfully, shaking his head as he was unable to give her what she craved. "I didn't get that far, yet… Any suggestions?"

She had a fair idea.

Turning her body toward him, she practically threw herself in his strong arms, her fingers buried in his hair as she pulled him in for a passionate kiss. Possessing the balance of an agile dancer, he caught her without missing a beat, shifting the woman to the grass and laying her down protectively.

Leaning over her, Varric enveloped her waiting body, pulling his mouth from hers only long enough to say, "Okay, but keep in mind: The Knight-Captain's on the other side of that cellar, Seeker."

Cassandra arched her back and placed a single finger through the ring at the base of his neck, pulling him down alluringly. "If we can make it work with the Inquisitor sleeping in a lit room," she moaned through her words, kissing him desperately, "then surely they can manage in the dark."

Varric sighed tenderly, bringing his lips to rest against her warm neck, tasting the sweetness of her skin. "I like the way you think…"

**~oOo~**

As they lay naked together, their eyes locked on the heavens above, Varric let out a sigh of pure contentment. The clouds were moving in, low and heavy with snow ready to fall at any moment, and the peaks in the distance were beginning to disappear from sight as the moon passed behind them, darkening the landscape. His heart and soul rested her head on his arm, her body sprawled out as the sweat of their joining nearly crystallised on her body. It was a moment he would look back on for the rest of his life, wishing that it could have lasted forever…

"They will say one of two things about me," the Seeker muttered next to him, her gaze focused on the blackening sky. "That I fought at a good man's side, my prisoner turned lover. That it was meant to be, despite our initial misgivings. Or they will say I was a hopeless fan of your books, led from the path of faith by the seductive power of a smutty author."

He let out the breath of a laugh, leaning up on an elbow as he traced the graceful lines of her form with a finger. "My books aren't what anyone would call 'smutty'. Not when compared with that other trash you read. Is this your idea of pillow talk? Offering baseless criticism?"

She smiled slightly. "If you wanted sweetness and light, you picked the wrong woman."

Chuckling, he looked down, the blanket beneath them itching him, but at least protecting them from the worst the grove had to offer. "Point taken," he muttered, not bothered at all that she defied the norm.

Leaning up suddenly, Cassandra placed a hand over his abdomen possessively, Varric leaning back to give her room. Her eyes met his with a strength and surety that surprised him. "I've been with only one other man in my life…"

Swallowing hard, Varric nodded sombrely. "Galyan," he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head. "I know, Seeker… Corypheus took him from you, but I'd never tell you to stop talking about him. Ever. You know that, right…?"

She refused to break her stare, her eyes softening for a split second before fixing again with determination. "…I will _not_ let Corypheus win. I will not let him take _you_ from me, as well."

Varric leaned back as he continued to watch her, unsure of what to say to something so powerful. The seriousness in her tone assured him, unnervingly so, that she would do anything to protect him.

And he sincerely hoped it would never come to that.

He leaned up slowly, their gazes trained on one another, and a hand lifted to touch her face, tracing the scar running vertically over her cheek and down to her jaw. Every cut, every scar, every curve and line of her captivated him, robbing the very breath from his chest. She had become his reason to fight. If there was nothing else for which to continue the struggle but her, he'd go forward… And gladly.

Reaching to his right with a hand, he found the small burlap bag within his rucksack, reached his hand inside, and gathered the gold chain in his fist, taking it out and holding it before her. "Here," Varric whispered, kissing the sweet skin of her forehead as she looked down in surprise. "I wanted you to have this…" He unclasped the gold chain and draped it around her neck, securing it for her with one neat flick of his hand.

Her mouth fell open a fraction at sight of the stunning gold, shined to a blinding sheen as it laid perfectly in the middle of her chest. "What is it?" The Seeker asked, enchanted by his gesture.

"A gift," he replied, touching the pendant affectionately. His hand drifted lower, finally resting on the curve of her hip. "This is the genuine article, Seeker. I'll tell you all about it some other time… Just know that it comes from the heart."

She shook her head wordlessly, her fingers running softly against the rays of the Andrastian sun. "Varric, I… I don't know what to say…"

There was only the slightest moment of hesitation, and Varric was sure that she would never have noticed, even had she been searching for it. His mouth dried up, forcing him to swallow as his heart began to pick up speed with every passing second.

Now was his moment of truth, and he couldn't dodge it by making it come from the mouth of another character in his story. No, this had to come from his heart for it to be perfectly understood.

"…I love you, Cassandra…"

If he had the chance to pinpoint the exact moment in time when she truly became his, it was roughly two seconds after the phrase had floated away on his gravelly voice, when she slowly processed the gravity of what he was confessing. Watching him closely to be sure of his sincerity, Cassandra took a sorely-needed breath.

"Here, tonight… I believe you."

And she moved over him, her spirit opening to him completely, their bodies joining once more as the first snow fell…


	22. What Happened by the Water's Edge

In a soulless tavern, long ago, in what seemed like another life by now, he’d once heard a copper-less bard reciting his own hand-written poetry, scribbled with arthritic fingers as much seized by frozen joints as by troubled wisdom, to a crowd too inebriated to appreciate it for what it truly was: a brutal art, crafted in the depths of abject poverty and performed with disquieting honesty. Being of sound enough mind to pay attention, he remembered the old man had lilted so sombrely that “even the best laid plans often go awry”, and that “there is no such uncertainty as a sure thing”. The haunted, wrinkled eyes of the bard, suffering from griefs both unknown and unfathomable, had focused then on him alone, as if the human vagabond had somehow found in the observant dwarven patron a kindred spirit of sorts.

Ever since, Varric Tethras hadn’t merely lived his life by those bitter nuggets of truth, spoken from a gravesite of dead and abandoned dreams. Rather, he could rely on them like prophecy, as surely as the sun would arise each morning to greet the new day.

It had started off so routinely that the proceeding events were mind-numbing in the shock they now induced. Wake up. Shave off beard growth. Brush teeth and tie up hair. Drink water. Dress. Comb chest hair. Take a shot. Simple things, really… Nothing special in their innocuousness. But they were the last taste of normality for him, the last breaths taken painlessly, without horrific doubt and crippling shame to rob him of all meaning.

Only a week ago, Skyhold had been a haven for them. If they had stayed behind, safety would have been a tradesman’s guarantee, at least for a time. But one cannot hide behind walls forever, not when there remain people outside those walls in need of saving.

Little did they know that those very people, desperate for help and in search of a cure, would be none other than themselves.

**~oOo~**

His chest rose and fell in a soothing rhythm beneath her scarred cheek, the sounds of his lungs expanding and deflating filling her with a deep sense of serenity. The morning light was beginning to tinge the sky a soft pink hue, the scattered clouds resembling golden dust vapours high outside her room’s window. For the fifteenth time, Cassandra closed her eyes and thanked the Maker for never stealing from her the soft heart that her brother had so loved and protected, allowing her to remain in these slight slivers of peace, which were undeniably a gift for them both. As she tightened the arm resting below his ribs in a tender embrace, his hand came to rest on her hair, gently smoothing the tussled braid that had come loose several hours ago.

“Remind me again, Seeker, why we’re going back to that creepy old bog today…”

She didn’t want to think about the Fallow Mire now. Not with the warm bed so inviting around them, not with the crumpled sheets pulled up to trap the heat of their bodies from escaping into the morning air. Still, the dawn had come, and with it came the relentless call of duty. “Inquisitor Lavellan spoke with our requisition officer, yesterday,” she mumbled sleepily, running her hand through the curled, golden hairs on his chest. “The sickness that plagued the settlers there is still a danger. It has begun to spread to our own forces… They require samples from which to study, to create an elixir that might heal them before it’s too late. But they are too outnumbered by undead, too weakened by illness to seek it themselves.”

Cassandra sighed, leaning up on an elbow as she met his tired eyes. “Truthfully, I believe she is procrastinating on a decision for the Grand Clerics, and is using this as a timely excuse to dodge the issue. She knows Josephine cannot argue against helping our own, especially when the Commander declared our men a priority over Chantry business, which he felt could wait in light of more pressing matters.”

“Yeah,” Varric mused, an eyebrow raising in good-humour, “but I bet Ruffles isn’t all that excited about the delay.”

“She isn’t, and neither is Morrigan, who wishes to seize control of some ancient elven temple Corypheus has his eye on,” Cassandra confirmed, disheartened. “Josephine sees choosing the next Divine as a relatively simple decision, one that the Inquisitor is determined never to make, it seems.” Frowning, she felt her spirits sink lower at the thought. “I don’t necessarily look forward to her answer… But each passing day with no clear direction has me worried that the life I desire may soon slip from my grasp…”

His sleepy eyes softened toward her, and with the gentlest of leading touches, he brought her lips down to meet his own, his wordless answer there for her to find: _You’re already divine to me._

Ending the kiss after a time, she leaned above him, her soul awash with the sort of serene calm she’d come to expect around him now. Reaching out with calloused fingers, he touched the pendant hanging gracefully from her neck, admiring the way it caught the subtle light of morning’s first rays. It was a striking piece, and when he had explained its origins and history to her some days ago, she had cherished the small artefact all the more.

Of course it didn’t bother her that it had once belonged to Shartan, leader of the elven slave rebellion in Tevinter nearly a millennium ago, and it somewhat surprised her that Varric had thought she might take issue with that.  Truly, the only question she’d had for Solas was how he knew without a doubt that it had once belonged to whom he’d claimed, but the apostate had only said that memories remained like a ghost upon it, and the object was easily traced through ancient memories buried in the Fade. Having nothing but his word on which to trust, Cassandra had accepted his vague explanation, and now she reached a hand up to take Varric’s own.

“Thank you again for this,” she uttered seriously. “I know you told me to stop repeating myself, but it is the truth. I cannot express how much it means to me, to know I actually possess something Andraste herself may have touched…”

He smiled faintly, sighing as his hand dropped from her grasp to his chest, scratching lightly. “Well, I’m glad you like it, Seeker,” he said in the start of a great yawn. Shaking off his grogginess, he moved to sit up, propping the soft pillow against the headboard before slumping down again on it. “Well, we should really start getting our shit together. You know the Inquisitor likes an early start.” Varric shot her a glance, closely followed by a knowing smile. “Oh, that’s right; you’re usually up at the ass-crack of dawn with her.”

Crawling over him with a smirk, she draped a leg over either side of his lap and settled her nude body against his, leaning down to whisper in his ear. “Can’t it wait…? Just ten minutes more?”

Varric took a deep breath as his arms rested over her thighs, his hands holding her hips before gripping them tightly in approval. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure they’ll wait for us,” he agreed, pulling her closer and basking in the small sigh she made as he helped her slowly on. “One more for the road…”

**~oOo~**

A solid week of crossing the Fereldan countryside passed by without much event before the bogs to the south came into view. With the damage the Blight had caused more than a decade before, it was difficult to tell when the Fallow Mire ended and the Korcari Wilds began, or whether the two places could even be considered separate locations, at this point. The entire area was disturbingly silent, the expected sounds of frogs, local birdlife, and flying insects suspiciously absent from the murky waters and muddy grounds. On previous visits, rain and thunder had masked some of the natural wildlife around them, but now that the weather was merely dreary instead of torrential, the lack of life sent a disconcerting chill down their spines.

The one rule of thumb around here was never to disturb the water, for the undead residing there would be alerted of their presence immediately and make for the shoreline, their hive mind bent on consuming all living things in their path – which might go toward explaining the lack of frogs and rodents, beyond the occasional lucky nug who happened to still be surviving off tall grass far away from the waters. The sooner they got what they came for, the better, in Varric’s opinion.

But that was easier said than done. One of the key components needed for discovering a cure was to retrieve samples of diseased tissues for further study, and those were best gathered from the bloated corpses floating lifelessly in the murky lakes. Andraste’s ass, how anyone had lived under these conditions even before the mysterious plague had broken out was unimaginable, let alone toiled the land for farming. Why hadn’t they packed their things and headed north ages ago? Still, it was what it was, and there was no reasoning with the locals now, seeing as they were either dead or now had their bodies controlled by demons, who roamed the area with impunity thanks to the blighted landscape.

The first night was spent in an intimate silence, the soldiers having cautioned them against making too much of a commotion and thereby attracting the worst elements the Fallow Mire had to offer. This was all well and good, since the last leg of their arduous journey considerably wore them down. He’d taken first watch with Blackwall and Vivienne, the two more than happy to refrain from conversing with one another, though admittedly the quiet was taking its toll on him. Varric couldn’t even drink out here, needing to remain sober and alert to fend off an attack, but with the bedraggled corpses doing nothing to keep away the shudder-inducing memories of Leandra Hawke’s last moments in Kirkwall, hard liquor would have been a handy alternative.

The consistent rustling of bushes and mud slides from the soaked hillsides did little to improve their nerves, Varric lifting Bianca to his shoulders with every minute sound their surroundings made. Blackwall had long-since begun to pace the perimeter of camp, sword and shield in hand, and every time he paused, his alertness brought Vivienne to her feet, her frost wards refreshed every hour to combat her own sense of heightened wariness. This would all be easier to cope under, really, if something actually _happened._ As it stood, though, every skitter, every ungodly groan, every single instance of the land resettling around them was ultimately of no consequence whatsoever, and the mental strain of constantly being on alert brought about more fatigue than any strenuous battle ever could have.

Rubbing his eyes in exhaustion, Varric looked up to the sky, reflexively checking the position of the moon before realising the fog was far too thick for such observations. His desire for rest being clear enough indication anyhow, he snapped his fingers to gain his companions’ attention and cocked his head toward the scarlet tents, silently communicating that it was time for a shift change. Vivienne glanced at Blackwall and nodded, and the warrior instinctively nodded back. Those two could at least agree on something – even a broken clock was right twice a day, he thought to himself, thought he didn’t know why, since that wasn’t exactly the correct application of the phrase.

It was customary to always have at least one warrior, one rogue, and one mage on duty, and each person was expected to find their relief by waking someone from their own fighting class for a suitable replacement. However, Varric was able to kill two birds with one proverbial stone, for doubtless Cole already sat among them as he always did on nights spent away from Skyhold. The Kid had already had it explained to him why a rotation was important, but not requiring any sleep, he usually ignored the order to instead watch over his friends, choosing to remain hidden so that the issue of his perpetual presence didn’t drudge the lecture up, anymore. With that in mind, the dwarf made his way to the furthest tent sheltered by the hill, where the Seeker had taken her leave along with The Iron Bull, signalling to Blackwall that he would choose a warrior to take his shift, this time. Grateful, Blackwall blinked his thanks with tired eyes and found the tent containing Dorian, Solas, and the Inquisitor, and he returned the favour by going inside to wake a mage for Vivienne. As she removed her high-heeled boots, which did her no good in this muddy terrain, Madam de Fer parted the thick fabric and stepped within to sleep beside Sera and what should have been Cole, but to no one’s surprise, only the elf rested within.

He left his hard leather boots outside the tent, fighting the selfish urge to wake Bull just so he could steal a few hours of cuddling before dawn, but as he parted the tent flap, he paused in momentary shock. Closing the cloth in his wake, he stood a comfortable distance from the support plank above him and tried to make sense if what he had found waiting for him. “I know I’m not dreaming, because that’s not exactly something I do,” he whispered, staring at her as best he could under such dark conditions. “I thought you’d be sleeping, Seeker… Those rations didn’t sit right in your stomach, either, huh?”

Cassandra was wide awake, sitting upright with her legs crossed and her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looked horrible, to put it bluntly, her eyes staring dead ahead at nothing in particular and barely acknowledging that she’d even heard him speak. Concerned for her state of mind, he took a knee and moved into her direct line of sight, a worry line etching deeply between his brows. “I’d ask if you want to take watch, but I’m getting the feeling you haven’t rested much.”

She blinked in response, managing to shake her head slightly in confirmation of his worries.

“What’s going on with you?” He asked in hushed tones. Then thinking better of it, he held up a finger. “Hold that thought. Hey, Tiny,” he shook the qunari’s shouder, rousing him in an instant. Bull sat up slowly as he brought up one muscly arm to wipe the sleep from his eyes. “Do me a favour and take Hero’s shift for him. I think the Seeker’s coming down with something.”

“I’m all right,” she said suddenly, a touch too loud given their perilous surroundings.

“Bullshit. You’re _not_ fine,” Varric insisted, laying a hand on her arm to keep her from getting up. “You’re no use to anyone like this.”

“I’m good, Cass,” Bull reassured her, slipping on his boots over his thick woollen socks and grabbing the haft of his battle hammer as he tried to manoeuvre himself out of the tent without ripping the sides with his horns. Peeking his head out, he shifted to look at them briefly. “Me and the Boss’ll be a-okay.”

As The Iron Bull left them to their own devices, Varric turned back to study the Seeker, only to find her expression fixed with frustrated annoyance. “I am not helpless, Varric,” she grumbled, glaring at him in the dark. “I do not need you to make decisions on my behalf.”

He wanted to ask what was causing her sudden harsh attitude, but that probably wasn’t the best approach considering she might fly off the handle and deck him in her current state. Deciding better of it, he laid Bianca at the foot of the cot and settled himself to sit beside her instead, if only to avoid the cross look she was giving him. “I know,” he whispered, trying to sound as though this was indeed a well-known fact rather than come off as condescending. “You’re a very capable person; trust me, I get that. I just want to make sure you’re getting what you need… Sorry if it feels like I’m babysitting you. I just… care about you.”

Her shoulders slumped slightly at the tail end of his words. “Yes, I know,” she admitted reluctantly, knowing he only had the best intentions at heart. “But if I’m awake, I might as well be doing something productive.”

A voice in the back of his mind urged him to make a suggestive comment at that, but he shoved it aside, leaning to his left to steal the warmth of Tiny’s field blanket and laying it over their laps. “The most productive thing you can do for yourself is to talk about whatever’s keeping you awake, right now. Are you thirsty? Do you need fresh air?” He chuckled apologetically. “Not that there’s much of either to go around.”

Cassandra was silent, and he watched in apprehension as her mannerisms returned to those he had witnessed upon first entering the tent. This wasn’t like her at all, so detached and sombre in spirit. He couldn’t recall a time when he had seen her quite so disturbed, and it sent an eerie chill up his spine. Wordlessly, he scooted himself down so he could lay his head on his half of the pillow, urging her to do the same by patting her leg and holding the blanket open for her to join him. It took Cassandra a long moment to comply, but eventually she did, yet she’d surprised him anew by facing the other way. Was she trying to hide her face from him or had he done something to upset her?

Tucking the blanket around her, he moved closer to hold the Seeker against him, and was relieved when she didn’t push his arm away. So she wasn’t mad at him; that was a huge relief, to say the least. But she was still recoiling in on herself for some unknown reason. “Did you have a bad dream?” He wondered, doing his damnedest to warm her arms. She was absolutely freezing, shivering even.

“No,” she replied distantly. Turning her head slightly, she hesitated before amending herself. “Well… Yes, but not tonight. It came to me some time ago.” Laying her ear against the pillow again, she let out a long breath and mumbled, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it does,” he reassured her encouragingly. “If it’s bothering you enough to keep you awake, it definitely matters… What was it about?”

“I can’t tell you.”

She was full of surprises tonight. “…Why not?”

There was a brief pause before she rolled onto her back, her eyes trained on the tent above them. “Because it would… be upsetting. No, I cannot,” she shook her head in finality.

It hurt slightly that she didn’t feel comfortable enough to open up to him when she clearly needed to, but he was more worried about what she was going through internally, alone with her sadness, and disliked his inability to assist. Lowering his head back down, he fell silent, deciding it best not to press the issue if she was uncomfortable with sharing.

A few minutes rolled past in total silence. It was unsettling not to hear the usual light murmurings of conversation outside, Bull, Cole, and the Inquisitor silently protecting the camp while their soldiers fought the sickness together elsewhere. A convoy had departed earlier for Skyhold with assurances from Lavellan that a cure would be sent by raven to meet them there, where they would be safe and warm. Even still, the roaming bodies of the dead, plodding aimlessly in the night in search of victims, the bog lands outside, sludge clouding the waters… All of it brought to mind terrifying memories of a night spent dreaming in Suledin Keep, fighting to reach the Champion over the influence of those demonic corpses grotesquely mimicking his tragedy-striken family.

Cassandra wanted to tell Varric everything, but to do so would only bring him needless pain. Still, she had been cold toward him unnecessarily due to the constant battle of distancing herself from all emotion in order to survive the night without a reoccurrence of that horrible nightmare. Feeling guilty, she reached a hand back to rest it on his hip in silent apology.

And then she heard him let out a gentle snore. He had been so thoroughly exhausted that he had fallen asleep in minutes. Rolling over to face him, she leaned up and stared at his face, so calm and relaxed, untouched by dreams… Some people had all the luck.

The Seeker leaned down and kissed his temple, brushing the light, ginger hair back as he breathed deeply in his slumber. “Sleep well… I love you,” she whispered, tucking the blanket snugly around Varric and leaning up to grab her obsidian boots.

Before she stepped outside to join her companions on their night watch and fixed her scabbard to her hip, she heard his breathy, distant reply.

“I love you, too, baby… Sweet dreams.”

**~oOo~**

 They split up into groups of three to better cover the Mire in search of the diseased tissue needed by the healers to cure their men. Inquisitor Lavellan had chosen Sparkler, Buttercup, and the Seeker to join her, the group setting course for the east. From there, the rest splintered off evenly, two trios heading south and southwest. He’d waved goodbye to the Kid, Chuckles, and Tiny with a plan to circle back toward camp after four hours. So far, though, they’d only encountered one floater on the water, and Varric was eyeing it forebodingly from a distance.

“I hate swamps,” he grimaced, calculating how to retrieve the body without rousing the undead lurking beneath the surface.

“As do I,” Vivienne replied, standing just behind his left shoulder. “I haven’t walked grounds this putrid since the Marquis d’Archambon threw an expedition-themed soirée in his own honour.”

“That makes three of us,” Blackwall grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he stepped close to the water and sniffed the dank, humid air. “ _Gah!_ What’s that smell? It’s calling my breakfast back up!”

“Likely, Blackwall, that foul stench is coming from the very thing we’ve been tasked to obtain,” Vivienne sarcastically reminded him, though her nose turned up as well at the rotting fragrance wafting heavily through the air everywhere they went. Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved a cloth she had doused with an Orlesian eau de toilette before setting out, clapping it over her nose and mouth to combat her nausea. “Run along, darling,” she nudged Varric forward.

He shook his head in refusal. “I can’t go in _there_ ,” he practically laughed at the idea, waving a hand at the bog. “I’d be underwater before I even _reached_ the damned thing, and dwarves are lousy swimmers!”

“Indeed,” she verbally shrugged, raising her face to the warrior, brown eyes smiling cordially over her stainless white kerchief. “My dear Blackwall, would you be so kind? I shall set wards for the guests we’ll no doubt be entertaining shortly.”

Setting his jaw, Blackwall let out a groan of revulsion, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he stepped forward, the end of his boot mere centimetres from the water’s edge. “Should’ve known I’d be the one doing all the dirty work, today,” he readily complained, removing the shield from his back. “Get ready.”

As Vivienne laid the first of her glyph traps along the shoreline, Varric raised Bianca to his shoulders, peering down the barrel and aiming for Blackwall in case he was suddenly accosted by the undead at close range. With that, Blackwall lunged into the water, his heavy armour weighing him down and causing him to sink further into the scum on the bottom. Undaunted, he held his shield out before him and pressed onward, reaching the corpse in ten slow strides.

A poisoned arrow chinked against his hard shield, and Varric followed its trajectory back to an undead male standing further out in the lake. Simultaneously a bolt fired from Bianca just as an ice spike soared through the air, both landing with sickening accuracy in the horrid thing’s forehead, sending it flying back with a splash into the murky depths.

“We’ve got company!” Varric shouted to Blackwall, who was endeavouring to take a sample. “Grab it and get over here!”

The warrior was one step ahead of him, though, and he gripped the arm of the cadaver, dragging it backwards toward his cohorts in order to keep the shield facing the dark expanse of the water. In an instant, another undead broke the surface next to him, and he battered it brutally with his shield, continuing to drag the waterlogged corpse in his wake as he fought it off. Varric took steady aim at a critical weak spot and pulled the trigger within seconds, piercing the creature’s exposed throat. Thinking quickly, Blackwall grabbed the protruding end of the bolt and torqued it roughly, creating a wide gash in its neck before then planting an uppercut on its hanging jaw, splitting the neck so entirely that the head came free, floating with wide, glowing eyes on the surface as the body disappeared beneath the water.

More were coming, but no more than they could handle. Madam de Fer handily neutralised three of them on her own, and as soon as his friend was on land again, Bianca rained down her wrath with impunity, striking almost every undead left standing. They kept skulking forward, undaunted by the assault, and Blackwall drew his sword, slicing at those who reached the shore.

“Fall back,” Vivienne commanded him, and the warrior obeyed without challenge, retreating a few more steps with his shield covering the bulk of his body. As they followed him mindlessly, the frost mines triggered beneath their feet and froze them solid. Within moments, Varric and Blackwall had shattered them like glass with crossbow and sword respectively. Checking their surroundings, they knew it was safe again when all had fallen silent.

“Bianca, baby,” Varric shouted victoriously with a smile, “that was _beautiful!_ ” He planted a kiss on her polished wooden stock before giving her a well-deserved rest on his back. Walking toward their spoils, he patted Blackwall’s arm in congratulations. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Speak for yourself,” he replied, still catching his breath. “Nearly lost my fucking boot in there.”

“And what a tragedy that would have been,” Vivienne commented dryly. “They’re the only items you possess which can even remotely be considered _en vogue_.”

His lip turning up in a growl, he let out a sardonic, “Thanks,” before then looking down at the lifeless body at his feet. “Well, that’s one less thing to worry about. I suppose I’ll have to take the bloody samples as well, seeing as you two aren’t willing to get your hands dirty.”

“Nah, I’ll get it,” Varric volunteered, going to his knees and retrieving one of the empty vials from his belt pouch. “One down, three to go.”

It wasn’t too long before they were on the move again, Varric taking point as Vivienne followed closely behind, the frost rune on her staff nearly crystallising the humidity in the air around her and causing it all to fall in a light sprinkle to the grass. Blackwall took up the rear, doing his best to remove the scum from his lower half as they walked, startled occasionally as lightning struck the grounds nearby. The dwarf led them across a land bridge slowly, walking under standing stone archways as they passed, and reached again for Bianca as he stepped over the terrain toward a set of standing stones between rock faces, wary of anything that might ambush them on the other side.

Upon making it through unscathed, they were greeted by a manmade, circular enclosure that Varric recognised as Granite Point. There was no chance of finding any bodies in this old Avvar ruin, but if he remembered correctly, there should have been an opening on the other side which led out to a ladder and a platform overlooking the swamplands to the south. From there, it would be easier to scope out their surroundings for more diseased bodies. “This way,” he cocked his head toward the opposite end.

They’d traversed the slight incline as far as the Inquisition’s landmark beside the Avvar statue and were heading for the trees before Vivienne stopped dead in her tracks behind him. “Now what in the Maker’s holy name do you suppose is happening over there?” She asked, her neck craning to stare suspiciously to their left.

Curious, Varric followed her gaze and saw what had caught her attention: a dilapidated encampment not belonging to the Inquisition, long-since abandoned. He recalled seeing it there, ages ago, when they had first passed through this area with the Inquisitor. “That’s nothing,” he dismissed it, wondering why she was now narrowing her eyes critically at the scene.

“No, look, Varric,” Blackwall pointed, validating the enchanter’s uncertainties. “There’s smoke coming from the fire pit. Must have been put out by the rain not too long ago.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, an itchy finger creeping toward Bianca’s trigger automatically. “Someone’s been here,” he muttered under his breath, not daring to move. The area was still and quiet, and there were no overt signs of anything untoward going on, but something deep in his gut didn’t feel quite right about all this.

“Should we go check it out?” The warrior asked, though the tone in his voice hinted at just how willing he was to keep his distance. Clearly he was as unsettled by this discovery as Varric was.

Vivienne shifted in Varric’s direction and looked down at him with authority. “ _Somehow_ , someone has managed to survive all the way out here,” she confirmed emphatically. “It is our moral duty as representatives of the Inquisition to provide assistance to anyone in need. We’d be negligent not to investigate, my dear.”

Letting out a sigh, he gripped Bianca tighter in his grasp and met their eyes. “Yeah, you’re right. Come on, let’s take a quick look.”

They were careful not to slip on the wet grass as they made their way down the slope in the land toward the decrepit campsite. The bodies they’d discovered here on their previous visit had been dragged and piled to the far side of the curved stone wall, which seemed a little disrespectful to him. Among the old, tattered belongings of the deceased were now a few new items scattered about, most importantly among them boot prints in the rocky sands… And damn, they were familiar.

Leaning down as his companions scouted the tents and chest for more clues to the identity of the campers, he placed two fingers beside one of the clearest prints by the dying embers. It was dwarven in size, which was incredibly odd and out of place. There _were no_ dwarves in the Fallow Mire. This was a human settlement near Avvar territory, and the Avvar rivalled the Qunari in both height and mass. What would dwarves be doing here, of all places?

“You’re a hard man to find, Tethras.”

He spun on his good heel, rising and lifting Bianca to his shoulders in one fluid motion, but there was nothing to be found. The voice had caused Vivienne to automatically plant a frost glyph just on the outskirts of the campgrounds, Blackwall drawing his longsword as the steel noisily sang in his grasp.

“ _Show yourself_ ,” Blackwall roared, his booming voice tearing through the stone enclosure.

From the crest of the small hill, three dwarves emerged, two of them wearing black bandanas to hide their scarred faces. The dwarf in the centre smirked dangerously, one of his eyes like fried egg whites in his scarred socket, and he raised his hands to show he lacked weapons. Fortunately for him, he was keeping a safe distance… for now.

“We heard your new friends had a reputation for dramatics, but this is over the top. You wouldn’t shoot unarmed men, would you?”

Varric sneered, staring down Bianca’s sights at the man, and flipped a switch on her stock, spreading her limbs quickly in a sequence of intimidating, mechanical clicks which gave them pause. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t turn Bianca loose on your sorry asses.”

He saw the stranger smile. “Oh, the sweet irony of that statement. Can’t you taste it, boys?” The two men at his side chuckled maliciously, but said nothing in reply.

That didn’t make any sense at all. _Irony?_ They didn’t even understand proper term usage, which was their biggest crime, as far as Varric was concerned. He glared at them in frustration, watching for any sudden movements. “What the hell do you want?”

“Lower your blighted crossbow and I’ll tell you. We just wanna have a friendly little talk.”

Still on edge, Varric stared at them for a long moment before glancing out the corner of his eye at Vivienne, who shook her head almost imperceptibly. At his other side, Blackwall slowly lowered his shield, turning his gaze to his friends as if to say, _Let’s hear them out first._ Reluctantly, Varric relaxed his shoulders, but kept Bianca firmly in his arms in case the mood changed for the worse.

Pleased that his stipulations had been met, the unknown dwarf and his flunkies sauntered toward them. They carried themselves in such a way that Varric recognised them in the span of a single breath.

Carta agents.

“You don’t know me personally, but you know who I work for, don’t you? I can see the gears turning in your head.”

He nodded slowly, his head in a daze, but found himself momentarily speechless. What the hell was the Carta doing in the Fallow Mire? There was nothing here whatsoever to profit from… He couldn’t make heads or tails of their presence… But he suddenly registered what the man had first said: _You’re a hard man to find, Tethras._ This was personal.

“Who employs you is of little consequence, darling,” the Iron Lady cut in, seeing that Varric was temporarily taken aback. “If you continue to be vague and threatening toward our persons, I can assure you, this meeting will end rather unfortunately with your sudden demises. Speak quickly. Do not waste our valuable time, dwarves.”

The leader glared at Vivienne then, possibly at the way she’d inflected that last word, as though she’d said “peasants” indirectly. “Down to business, then,” the agent nodded firmly, standing before Varric and narrowing his one good eye at him. “You owe on a debt.”

So they were definitely here for him. _Well, that was stupid of them_ , he thought. Even if it was three on three, the Carta agents were at a significant disadvantage with Hero and the Iron Lady at his side. “I owe a lot of people a lot of things, ass lickers,” he taunted them, knowing he held all the cards. “Elaborate for me.”

What the dwarf said next nearly froze the blood in his veins. “Valammar.”

His heart leapt into his throat, nearly ceasing its perpetual beating at the word. There was no way they could have gotten word of his involvement. Putting forth his best bluff, he shook his head and laughed in dismissal. “I don’t know what you’re –”

“You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about,” the dwarf interrupted icily. “Don’t try to deny it. We know what you did.” He shot a glare toward Blackwall then, beginning to pace as he went on. “That was a lucrative operation we had going with the Elder One. But then you and your new friends cut down all our miners and sealed off the Deep Roads for good. We don’t appreciate you ripping up our contracts for us. Now I’m here to collect on what you owe.”

“If they’re all dead, how could you even know who was responsible?” Blackwall challenged this revelation, just as good a card player as Varric ever was.

The agent stopped in front of the warrior, not letting Blackwall’s height deter him from trying to assert dominance over the situation. “We have our sources, and we trust them,” he grinned, eyeing the human with a critical once-over. “Not _everyone_ is honest… but they’ve never steered us wrong before.” It was as if the Carta knew who he truly was, and confidently drove the knife of their knowledge deep and unsettlingly into the wound.

But Varric wasn’t playing around anymore, and was swiftly losing his patience with the proceedings. “Whatever the Carta thinks I owe them, I’m not paying a damned silver of it,” his gravelly voice spat. “Now take your shit and get out before I make my mind up on whether to just kill you all.”

“Oh, you’ll pay, alright, Tethras,” he turned on the man, meeting him eye to eye as his face grew red with barely-suppressed rage. “Sodding surfacers have _no_ respect for Orzammar business!”

“I don’t see you guys sitting pretty underground,” Varric rasped dangerously, raising Bianca slowly to his chest. “I couldn’t give two shits about Orzammar. It’s lowlifes and crime lords that I have no respect for.”

The two agents, who had remained statuesque for the duration of the confrontation, now placed their leather-clad hands near the hilts of formerly hidden daggers, angered enough to prepare to strike without orders. Their leader turned and glared at them, silently demanding their obedience. When they subsided, the one-eyed dwarf faced Varric again. “You’ve been a pain in the Carta’s ass for too long. The assassins don’t even faze you anymore, every dead agent we find putting you deeper and deeper in the red.”

His eye smiled in an icy grin, something sinister lurking behind his words as he hissed them. “But now we know exactly how to twist your ear and make you listen good. And I’ve been sent topside to make sure you hear that message loud and clear.”

It was one thing to thwart the Carta’s amateur assassins, who weren’t even as good as the Crows in Antiva or those hired by the surface castes. That would hardly constitute a threat worth getting worked up over. Nevertheless, he swallowed hard then to aid his drying mouth, feeling his own face pale at the idea that the Carta, irate at being robbed of their red lyrium funds, had uncovered a weakness they could exploit. His gut clenched in agony at the thought of what that weakness might be… Or rather, who.

Varric’s bluff had been called, and the dwarven agent basked in the palpable fear he had incited. As the one-eyed man leaned toward him, Varric stood paralysed, his mind unable to take the threat seriously, but his heart unwilling to outright dismiss it.

"This time,” he grinned, savouring every word, “we’ll take our payment in blood…” Then he stood back, spreading his arms wide as though bowing after a momentous performance, and a chill ran up Varric’s spine when the man began to walk away, laughing sinisterly with his lackeys in tow.

Lightning struck a tree nearby, causing it to all but explode in a ferocious display of nature at its most perilous, and Varric took advantage of the momentary distraction, firing a bolt directly into the back of one of the thugs. As if she had been waiting for such a signal, Vivienne snapped her fingers, and the Carta agent froze in mid-stride, a powerful breeze from the heat of the blaze knocking him clean over. “In my circles, my dear, it’s considered impolite to end a conversation without exchanging proper farewells,” she chided him icily.

Riled, the injured man recovered from his momentary shock, rolling and dropping to a knee while swiftly grabbing an arrow from his quiver and firing it from his bow directly at Madam de Fer, who blocked it with a thick block of ice formed from the veil itself. The other thug threw down a pair of smoke bombs at his feet and disappeared in the black clouds exploding from them, causing Blackwall to let out a shout of challenge, his sturdy shield held up in preparation for battle.

Varric ducked in time to avoid an arrow flying toward his chest and raced to the right, all the while keeping his eyes on the archer whilst also making sure he wasn’t a stationary target for the dagger-wielding rogue. Narrowing his eyes, he managed to douse the next bolt in poison from a vial at his belt and fire it, knowing it didn’t matter where it struck so long as it hit. Once Bianca had firmly planted the bolt in the stocky dwarf’s middle, it was only a handful of seconds before he fell back on his knees, holding the wound as his face tinged a sickly green, falling backwards on the grounds with grave finality.

The other appeared beside Blackwall and attempted to flank the warrior, but he was too quick, the daggers colliding with his shield. He shoved the man back, and the dwarf lost his balance, falling to the ground where he was promptly impaled by the glistening longsword. With a gurgle, he soon died, and Blackwall pulled his weapon free, wiping it clean with a cloth.

Vivienne replaced her staff on her back, walking nonchalantly over to the leader of the neutralised group, still in the clutches of her spell. “How shall we dispose of this unsightly grease stain?” She asked Varric, nudging him to roll so he faced upward, revealing the rage in his frozen expression. “Is he even _worth_ interrogating before he is summarily dispatched?”

Storming over to them, Varric kicked the body of the man before standing directly over him, a boot on either side of his middle. Glaring, he raised Bianca and got the dwarf’s forehead in his sights. “Call it off,” he rasped, sick adrenaline coursing through his veins.

The Carta agent was at his mercy, yet he remained defiant to the last, able to speak just barely through his locked jaw. “What’s that dumbass thing you always say just before murdering someone with that contraption? ‘Bianca says hello’? So say it already, nug fucker. My ancestors await!”

Impatient and growing desperate, Varric pulled a switch roughly, extending the sharpened bayonet instantaneously and pressing it firmly to the base of the dwarf’s throat. “ _Call off the damn hit!_ ” he shouted, his face red with rage.

The agent couldn’t achieve a laugh in his current state, but he’d managed the effect for the most part. “She’s already been dealt with. Don’t you idiots get it? I’m just here to distract you!”

Blackwall reeled then, stepping backwards toward the standing stone opening. “Come on! We’ll catch them before it’s too late!”

Varric stood in place, his shock causing the blood to rush from his face, leaving him with a ghostly pallor. All the while he had been wasting time right here, completely unaware of what was happening elsewhere in the expanses of the bog.

But Blackwall was right, he told himself firmly. There was still time. Still a chance.

In a huff, the Iron Lady snapped her fingers once more to release her captive, and the dwarf collapsed like a rag doll in a heap. “There’s nothing you can do for her now,” he revealed with a gloating smile, lying prone on the grass and gasping for breath. “Your debt’s been paid.”

Glaring, Varric put a boot to his chest to hold him down and aimed for his one good eye. “You talk too much,” he seethed at last, and pulled the trigger.

**~oOo~**

“Do I? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, _I_ have! ‘Blah, blah, blah!’ I think you just like the sound of your own voice.”

“As does everyone! My voice can melt solid butter – that comes in quite handy at breakfast.”

To the north, just southwest of Fisher’s End near a beacon, the Inquisitor ignored Dorian and Sera’s prattling as she lifted a black sconce to the Veilfire and lit the ethereal flame for more light. Cassandra watched in sluggish exhaustion, regretting that she had not caught more than an hour’s rest the night before. This stinking bog didn’t exactly mirror her old nightmare, but the comparison was difficult to shake even now. Varric had been so kind, only wanting to alleviate her distress so he could hold her as they slept, but that had not come to pass. At least tonight, after all this drudging through the mires, she would undoubtedly rest easier in his arms, knowing they would soon be leaving again for Skyhold. Perhaps they might even be brave enough to try for more, if she could promise to be silent…

“Why, Cassandra, I’ve never seen you smile so much!”

She turned to Dorian, who stood on the shoreline close to the body he claimed to have found further out, and involuntarily flushed. “I am not smiling,” she denied, but a quick check of her outward expression revealed the ugly truth in his observation. The Seeker immediately reworked her features to present him with an irritated scowl, which more befitted her usual mannerisms.

“ _Now_ you’re not, but only because I pointed it out,” he grinned dazzlingly, crossing his arms over his chest in victory.

Glaring, she followed Lavellan back to the water, where the Dalish scanned the area he’d indicated moments ago. “I am not a giddy schoolgirl, Dorian,” Cassandra reminded him, perturbed at his innate teasing.

“That would be easier to believe if you hadn’t just blushed,” he chuckled heartily, but seemed to drop the issue there.

Still, she couldn’t let him believe he’d won this exchange. “ _You’re_ smiling a great deal these days,” she bit back, ready to give as good as she got.

In a perfect display of what she referred to, Dorian turned his face to her and grinned dashingly. “I always smile! People like my smile – and they should. I have excellent teeth.”

Apparently, his little game of taunting her was not working as well in reverse. Annoyed, Cassandra’s lip turned up in derision. “Do you always do it while staring dreamily into the distance?”

He shrugged and turned his gaze back to the corpse, pleased that the Inquisitor had at last spotted his find among the tall blood lotuses protruding from the surface some metres away. “It depends how long until dinner.”

At that, Sera began to snigger to herself, and at first Dorian presumed it was in response to what he had said. But as the quiet chortle morphed into an out-and-out giggle, they all shifted to look at the elf dubiously. “Something particularly funny?” He said to her, clearly wanting in on the joke.

Sera held her sides as she plopped down on the wet grass, pointing directly at him obnoxiously. “You! And Bull!”

“I…” Dorian stiffened uncomfortably then. It was one thing to poke at one another with snide innuendos, but to have Sera just state the obvious so blatantly was spoiling all the fun – and shining a light on matters he would have preferred to keep under wraps. “I’m _glad_ it amuses you. But what I get from my affairs is…” He sighed and shook his head, unable to find an easier way to say it. “My affair.”

“I _know_ wot _you_ get,” she shouted with glee. “It’s like fallin’ through a tree into custard! ‘Too high!’ _Wham!_ ‘Too fast!’ _Wham!_ ‘Leeeaaaves!’ _Wham! Splat!_ ”

His eyes grew round as a blush stained his olive cheekbones, and he turned toward Lavellan with a meek smirk. “I’m not sure which is worse: the mockery, or the _accuracy_.”

She smiled back at him mercifully, tugging her sinking foot free of the mud as she aided her friend by changing the subject. “Right, then. Whose turn is it to go in after it?”

“Sera’s,” Cassandra and Dorian chimed in unison, glancing at the archer expectantly.

“ _Eugh_ , get stuffed!” She shook her head stubbornly. “Use Dorian’s big staff to fish it out!” As the Tevinter’s brows shot up in sordid amusement, she shot him a glare. “You know wot I meant! Anyway, how come you lot are right at home around icky dead things?”

“Well, Dorian’s a necromancer,” Lavellan gestured toward him as if this was apparent just by taking in his exotic appearance. “And Cassandra was born and raised in Nevarra. The dead are practically a Nevarran’s bread and butter.”

“One more mention of butter, and I’m going to start salivating,” Dorian chortled quietly.

“I do not share my countrymen’s ceaseless fascination with the macabre,” the Seeker was quick to point out, “but I do not shy away from my duties, either.”

“Inky, you do it,” Sera practically begged her. “I’m not bein’ funny, right? That’s creepy stuff, touchin’ that shite.”

Dorian arched a brow quizzically at the Herald. “Lavvy, why are you just as calm around these poor things as myself and Cassandra? Surely they aren’t an intrinsic part of Dalish culture, unless I have less of a grasp on your kinfolk than I should, by now. Or are you simply desensitised by all the terrible violence around us daily?”

Giving a rueful smirk, Lavellan sighed and stepped carefully into the water, careful not to create too many ripples on the surface. “You’d be surprised how many humans choose to dispose of their enemies’ bodies in the woods,” she replied rather morbidly as she took slow, careful steps. “Whether it’s done to hide evidence of a murder or to try to frame the clans, we honestly don’t know because no humans from the villages ever bothered to question us on what we knew. It could have been that they were afraid we’d kill them, too, and maybe that was the whole idea behind the body dumps. In any case,” she shrugged, “we Dalish learn to… _familiarise_ ourselves with random corpses appearing on our land.”

“Oh… _Charming_ ,” Dorian winced, not knowing what to make of that and backing away to get a better view of the landscape instead.

With all the practice they’d had today at retrieving bodies, it wasn’t long before the Inquisitor finally reached the corpse, which was entangled in weeds and eking out decomposing fluids into the surrounding waters. Though the Seeker was long-since accustomed to the smell, she was still satisfied with her position under a far-off tree, where the more “nostalgic” odours of her homeland could not quite reach.

She didn’t even mind it greatly when Dorian moved to stand next to her, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “A little bird tells me you might be up for the Sunburst Throne, Cassandra.”

Now she was even more relieved that Lavellan was out of earshot, though she whispered back regardless, reminded of the elves’ keen hearing abilities. “I suppose you’d prefer to see a man in the position…”

He disguised a grin behind his hand, pretending to groom his impeccable moustache. “You’d certainly be a first step towards that.”

“That would be _less_ amusing should it actually come to pass,” she glowered, shifting her weight from one hip to the other as Sera crept toward the water’s edge and belatedly offered her assistance, probably only doing so upon realising her companions might just tell the whole camp about her cowardice later.

Dorian cut through her musings seriously. “You’d be mad to consider it… Can you _imagine_ the target it would place on you?”

His words induced a shudder, but she fought the instinct before he could take note of her unease. “I don’t want to think of that, right now.”

The two elven women did their best to clean Lavellan up, her light leggings dripping with scum and emanating a smell best left undescribed.

“Do you think they’ll actually _make_ you Divine?” He wondered, a palpable blend of anticipation and incredulity in his tone.

Sighing, she glumly replied, “It seems anything is possible, these days.”

Dorian let out a small huff, shaking his head in bafflement. “It’s so odd… Like waiting for the Chantry fairy to appear. ‘Congratulations, you’re the ruler!’”

Cassandra looked over to Lavellan then, whose attention was currently averted elsewhere. It was an apt comparison. Slap a pair of glittering silken wings on the Dalish’s back, and she could easily pass as a fairy, though she was decidedly _not_ one of Chantry origin. “We do not engage in pitched battle for the position, as you do in Tevinter,” she retorted, and was thoroughly glad that the throne wasn’t decided by combat. Were it, she might actually emerge victorious, and she didn’t want to win, anymore – not in that, at least.

“The successor must prove he _could_ slaughter his enemies,” Dorian shrugged, absently checking his nails for dirt. “He doesn’t actually do it. We’re not savages.”

“Indeed,” she muttered, ready to move on as Lavellan and Sera crossed the grounds to join the fold. “The slaughter occurs _after_ he becomes Divine.”

She’d intended to cause offence, but seemingly every dig Cassandra made about Tevinter only caused the man to smile, as if she’d triggered in him a fond memory. “That’s considered housekeeping,” he quipped, taking the samples from the elven mage and placing them amongst his own in the shared rucksack. “Ah, and with that, my sweet Inquisitor, we have obtained our four samples! Shall we head back to camp to reward ourselves with a festive lunch of stale rations and cloudy lake water while we wait for the rest to arrive?”

“One moment. Let me see if I can locate the others first,” Cassandra said, beginning to climb the hill on her own where the beacon and ancient stones stood. From there, she’d surely gain a better vantage point to observe just where their companions were.

“Checking on him _again_ , Cass?” Dorian called after her, commencing once more with the damned teasing. “Not a schoolgirl, then, but certainly a bit of a headmaster. You know, your man is perfectly capable of taking care of himself!”

She ignored him completely, cresting the hill and squinting as she surveyed the area past the long dock. No one was in sight, however, and her shoulders slumped a touch as concern ebbed over her features. Strangely, something felt off to her, though she couldn’t begin to explain why…

“Wait,” she heard Lavellan perk up at his words. “Do you know who she’s –”

“I keep tellin’ everyone it’s Cullen,” Sera interrupted with her opinion insistently. “Why doesn’t nobody listen?”

“Because you _happen_ to be misinformed, Sera,” Dorian smugly replied, clearly enjoying the fact that he knew something the other two did not. “It’s all a big secret; I _really_ shouldn’t say. But oh, _Maker_ , it’s delectable!”

Cassandra refused momentarily to fall for the bait, her blush overwhelming her face to the point where her ears were burning, but when she heard the Inquisitor insist, “ _Tell me_ ,” in an ill-suppressed whisper, she moved to make an about-face and tell Dorian where he could shove his gossip. Had she not done so, she would never have noticed the strange ripples shifting the air to her left.

Cassandra froze in place, using only her peripheral vision as a guide. Spotting the hidden figure again and watching as it slowly approached to flank her, she waited until it was close enough and threw her leg in a round kick without warning, her shin colliding with something solid and unseen, sending the unknown assailant tumbling down the hill.

He landed at the mages’ feet, the two friends staring in dumbfounded shock at a bearded dwarf in dark leathers and a black hood. “ _There,_ ” the Seeker shouted belatedly, about to charge down the hill toward the unknown rogue assassin. Before she could even draw her sword, though, something sharp struck the back of her knee, and she cried out in pain just as she looked down to discover a throwing axe embedded in her leg.

They were under attack.

Unfortunately, her cry had distracted her friends for the shadow of a second, and that was all the time the dwarf at their feet needed to pull out a fistful of grenades.

“ _He’s got thingies!_ ” Sera screeched in alarm before instinctively shooting the man on the ground. Though he succumbed to the critical wound instantly, the pins had been pulled, and the grenades, rolling from his limp fingers, detonated in a blinding flash.

Cassandra tried to race forward to help her friends, but her leg gave way when she attempted to put weight on it. Then she found herself distracted when yet another dwarf appeared from behind a stone. And another. And another.

Until she was completely surrounded.

“ _I can’t see_ ,” she heard Lavellan scream, followed closely by Dorian as another round of dwarven ingenuity dropped from above. A dwarf had appeared in the branches of the tree under which they stood, sending down smoke grenades laced with a noxious gas that had them fleeing blindly. Coughing, Sera rubbed her stinging eyes painfully and fired arrows toward any sound not of her companions, and amazingly she managed to strike the dwarf in the tree right between the eyes. He came down like a rock, landing with a thud in the smoke beside his slain accomplice.

Dorian’s eyeliner was running as his eyes watered profusely, staining his cheeks in black tear tracks. Just as he was about to erect a flame wall between them and their attackers, Lavellan blindly grabbed his arm and interrupted the spell, casting a ward of protection around them in its place. “No fire, or the air might ignite,” she shouted over the hissing of the bombs. Sera threw a hand out before her and felt instinctively for the others, reaching them in a few heartbeats, and they fell to their knees, struggling to breathe and see again.

“Cass, where are you?!” Dorian yelled, unbeknownst to him that another round of grenades was rolling toward them. “Shit, they’re coming out of the walls!” Then they were accosted once more, and the Seeker felt a chill go through her as the three fell into coughing fits… before a heart-wrenching silence overcame them.

She only had time to register these happenings between long thrusts of her sword, the dwarven aggressors daring to lunge at her one by one. She slashed at their middles, their necks, their arms, landing lethal blows, but it seemed as though they never stopped coming for her, each dead man replaced with yet another in his wake. Her wound dripped crimson blood down her leg, and she used the throwing axe she’d pulled herself to send it careening toward the forehead of the burlier one holding a battlehammer. It lodged deep in his face and he dropped in a heap, his body rolling freely down the hill.

“ _Sod it_ ,” one of them seethed through clenched teeth. “ _Kill_ the damn warrior!” At that, they charged forward in unison, their weapons raised. Big mistake.

Though she was kneeling, she swung wide, protecting her face with her shield as she pivoted, and the men surrounding her fell from their injuries to the dewy grass. There was an outcry of indignation from many of them, as if affronted that the Seeker was putting up a struggle at all. But they would not take the Right Hand of the Divine without a fight, and if she didn’t make it through this, she would as sure as hell go down swinging.

Her mind bypassed all pain receptors, flooding her full of adrenaline, and she felt nothing as their various blows landed. Cassandra roared and crashed her steel against their hard leathers, cutting through the armour to the flesh below. One fell. Then another. _Six, seven, eight,_ she counted as they gurgled their last breaths. But to her horror, dwarves seemed to be pouring in from every direction. There truly was no end to them.

The blur of bloodthirst and battle set in. How long she’d fought against her attackers was unclear. The only thing she knew for certain through the bleary haze was that they weren’t here for the Inquisitor. They paid the elf no attention as she lay unconscious on the ground at the foot of the hill, her friends out cold beside her, the gasses having disposed of them all too easily.

Before she could determine their purpose, she was struck on the back of her skull with something hard and blunt, knocking her down to her knees. Cassandra blinked hard for a split second, trying to regain her focus, but was struck again between the shoulder blades, pushing her flat against the hillside as the wind was knocked clear out of her. A boot came down hard on the now badly bruised area of her back, and she involuntarily let out another cry from the agony it brought forth. She tried to twist out from under the pressure, but several hands fell upon her, assisting her as she quickly turned over.

They were strong, working as one unit. Too strong. Cassandra struggled in their grasp, kicked her legs out, and even managed to shove one backwards down the hill. Angrily, one of them snatched her by the hair and forced her head all the way back, exposing her throat.

Just as she heard a knife being unsheathed, a dwarf in heavy armour stepped into her line of sight. “We’re _not_ slitting her throat,” he growled at the younger assassin about to slash the dagger across her neck.

“But our orders were to just –”

“ _I don’t care_ what the order was!” He wiped the blood seeping from his split lip. “This bitch just killed over a dozen of our best agents! We’re gonna make her suffer for it!”

Trapped in a suspended terror, Cassandra watched with wide eyes as their leader reached into a leather pouch at his belt and pulled out…

“ _No!” Maker, of all things, please not this!_ She kicked and threw her weight in every direction, managing to free an arm and land a solid punch to a bearded henchman’s nose, sending him reeling when it collapsed like paper mache beneath her fist.

“Hold her down,” the leader of the assault demanded, uncorking the vial of glowing, red fluid carefully. “I can’t spill this shit or it’ll kill us!”

“I will kill you first,” Cassandra swore to him, her eyes glaring with rage. “I will send you _all_ back to the Void!”

Strong fingers grabbed her jaw and forced her mouth to gape wide. She closed it despite this, her teeth cutting the insides of her cheeks as she clenched down on them, but another blow to her cheekbone stunned her just long enough for them to force her jaw open with a sickly crack.

And then he poured.

The red lyrium felt like a spreading cancer, plaguing every corner of her mouth. The agony was excruciating as it burned her lips, her gums, her tongue, all her nerves on fire from the immediate effect it had taken. The pain she was subjected to was truly indescribable, but as they forced her mouth closed, the flesh sizzling audibly through her throbbing skull, she succeeded in one last act of defiance.

Pursing her reddened lips, she spat the deadly lyrium in a thick mist, sending the dwarves back in an instant as they darted to get away. It had the desired outcome, though: they were screaming in pain as the liquid coated their eyes, and some had even breathed it in with a gasp of surprise, as well. But Maker help her, she could feel the red lyrium crawling down her throat, and though Cassandra tried to scream for help in the desperate hope her cries would carry on the wind, her voice was choked, burned off in the wake of their sadistic torture.

Freed momentarily, she rolled and scrambled away, searching for her sword in the chaos all around her. She could hear her blood quicken, feel it thicken, and when she was a mere metre away from her weapon, her veins bulged in her face and arms, poison coursing through her body. All she could hear over her pounding heart anymore were her own pained grunts. But she was never going to give up, and reached a seizing hand toward the hilt of her longsword.

Shoved to the ground. Tied and bound. It all happened in an instant, and they yanked the Seeker to her slit knees, stinging with awful, sickly pain from the cinched movement. Looking up, the leader stood before her, the whites of his eyes bloodshot and the lids scarred with pocked burn marks.

With only a few cold, calculated words, he sealed Cassandra’s fate:

“Tie weights to her boots,” he rasped to his men, his red eyes grinning with evil itself as he stared out at the wooden dock over the swampy waters of the Fallow Mire. “And throw this human bitch in.”


	23. No Time for Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I'm giving out a possible trigger warning for those who may have experienced near-drowning, or for those who have lost loved ones in this manner. I'm not writing this out of ignorance, as I have personal experience with this, myself, in a neighbour's pool when I was seven years old. If you believe you might be upset by Cassandra's plight, please skip the first scene, since this is where firsthand details of her fight for survival are divulged.
> 
> For all others, please... "enjoy".

 

 

 

Until the last possible breath, she had fought against her fate.

When it finally came time to take that last breath, she had stolen it to her chest, gasping the foul air in as hard as a gale-force wind before the cold, murky waters closed in overhead. Her body writhed, aching to hold it deep within as the chain around her ankle pulled her downward, yet the pain in her blood was a brutal reminder that, even were she to escape this brush with death, she would not last through the night.

For here, at the bottom of the gloomy depths of the mire, she was truly helpless.

The ball at the end of that chain was not the only weight keeping her from raising her hands above the water. Ironically, her own heavy Seeker armour, what she donned each day to protect herself, to keep herself alive in the midst of battle, was doing a fine job of this on its own. No longer a Seeker, yet wearing the emblem proudly on her chest as a promise that she would one day restore and reform her Order… And now she would never have that chance… Not if she didn't fight.

As soon as her descent had ceased, Cassandra immediately set about freeing herself of her cumbersome burden. Following the chain downward, she felt blindly for the other end, and slowly realised the iron ball had buried itself deep in the scummy floor of the swamp waters. Denying the inevitable for now, she dug with bloodied fingers, stirring the slime and the muck all around her until, had her eyes been open, she would have been able to see that seeing itself was easier for the eyeless.

Something happens to people when they begin to drown. A wild denial, a primal desire for life, kicks in automatically – that reflex all succumb to, no matter how brave, when the mind registers that life is rapidly drawing to a close. The struggle at first does not seem insurmountable, and to accept this as one's cause of death barely crosses the mind, in the beginning. Then half a minute passes, and then a full minute, and soon the minutes no longer exist. Such a brief span of time in the grand scheme of things, and then the lungs begin to burn with the instinct to breathe. Fighting it is a battle as desperate as any fought with swords and shields, bows and arrows, ice and fire. But it is a battle fought entirely against oneself. None of this can be helped by poison, riddling muscle and bone with weariness and fatigue, but poison is not necessary when it comes to drowning. Water is a silent killer, muffling screams, masking scuffles… A lonely way to die. A hopeless, horrific sensation…

When the lungs at last win out and force the air out in an explosion of pain, the next, most fervent instinct is to breathe, the rib cage tearing itself in two to expand. This, too, must be fought, and it is then when the tides of the battle shift drastically, turning any hearty soldier swiftly into a hapless victim. Close oneself off long enough, and the brain falls unconscious from a lack of air on which to function. The act of falling unconscious in and of itself is the true killer, for it is then that the fight is forfeit, and the water breaks the dam in the throat, penetrating to where it must inexorably go.

Unseen tears mixed with the darkness around her, one last bid for survival taking hold. Pushing past the pain, she felt around the floor for her sword, knowing they had thrown it in after her to hide away their crime, and made contact with the pommel. Cassandra pulled it from the scum threatening to bury it and shoved the end of her blade through a chain link.

But then her body lurched once, twice, three times. A hand flew instinctively to her burning throat and she looked up, her eyes flying open and glimpsing the calming ripples on the surface for the first time, faint rays of light passing through to shine down upon her. Her rational mind forgot her task, instead reaching out a gauntlet toward the surface, as if all she had to do was grab it to pull the sky down toward her.

The pendant on her chest felt suddenly warm, and a faint glow from the Holy Symbol of Andraste caught her attention. She looked at it, her brow furrowing in confusion… and it took only that brief pause for a trickle to break her barriers. Involuntarily, Cassandra's eyes rolled hard to the back of her head. Her body went rigid, arching impossibly… And then she was filled to the brim with cold.

The burning had stopped, soothed in an instant. She gasped in disbelief, and her ribs contracted violently to expel the fluid out. Not since the womb had her lungs been filled in this, and the chill was so foreign in her chest that she gasped yet again, as though this time would be any different, able to breathe precious air once more. The denial is strong in those moments of terror, the mind not yet ready to make peace with what is happening to the body. Desperation. Clinging to life. _Maker, do not let it end this way…_

Slowly but surely, her movements all but stilled, vision flashing and darkening in a macabre fireworks display. With that act of helpless surrender, she sunk to the bottom and laid upon the scummy floor, her armour and the water coaxing her down to the softness beneath her cheek like a pillow within a casket. The pendant on her neck was emitting a soft glow, warming her body and offering comforting light, but she could not spare a thought for it. Cassandra was undergoing shock, realising with a transfixed horror that death did not occur immediately following the intake of water. Instead, her mind lingered, still conscious for a dozen or more seconds, processing with grim finality that her end had surely arrived…

And in that brief, slipping time where the world ceased to be, Anthony came to her.

Her eyes stared at his soft smile as he approached, glowing angelically, walking toward her with an arm outstretched for her to take. Behind him, just over his shoulders, came her mother and father, out of the darkness and into the light. Turning her head, she looked the other way in incredulity, only to find Regalyan, his long hair floating like a halo about his face, reaching slowly toward her. Behind him was the Champion, and beside him for all eternity, the mage Anders. Justinia V appeared from the darkness, her old eyes smiling, and even Cassandra's apprentice, Daniel, whom she had lost to the Lord Seeker and his cultists, was at her side, just as she was once at his, offering merciful death… All of them came as though to welcome her to the other side of the veil.

Dying couldn't be all that bad, surely… After all, she would be with her loved ones, serving at the Maker's Right Hand forever. It was… comforting to see them again. No more fighting, no more wars… Only peace awaited her, should she only let go…

But as they leaned over her to take her home, their beloved faces dissolved to nothingness, leaving only the horrid, rotting flesh of the cursed undead to surround her.

**~oOo~**

They ran until their lungs were fit to burst, tearing through the terrain, careless of whether they disturbed the water in their mad dash to race to Cassandra's aid, for nothing could be more disturbed than Varric was. Tunnel vision guided him forward, a singular focus that not even Blackwall's sensible rationalities or Vivienne's frank reassurances could penetrate. Not even the thought that he might be too late broke his concentration – until he heard the low bellow of a war horn from the south. Turning his head, Varric pushed the ginger strands from his eyes and squinted to get a better look, hoping what he heard was Cassandra signalling her location.

Instead, what he saw was The Iron Bull leading a charge, Solas and Cole keeping up close behind him.

"How do they know?" Blackwall huffed through his controlled breathing as Bull blew another note before quickly attaching it to his belt.

"The Kid's with them," Varric uttered, inferring in an instant how they had been alerted to the danger. And if Cole could sense something wrong, that could only mean one of two things: it was happening, or had already been carried out. "Which way?!" He called out to the three headed toward them, preparing to dart off again in the right direction.

"The beacon," Solas pointed insistently, racing forward. "To the northwest!"

With that, the three were now six, Varric, Blackwall, Vivienne, Cole, Solas, and Bull all blazing a path through the Mire to save their friends and lovers.

He only prayed that they would get there in time.

**~oOo~**

The first thing he was conscious of was the ache in his chest, followed closely by the damp grass staining and drenching his sensitive garments. His pained eyes still closed, he winced, scrunching his forehead and nose as he fought through his laboured breathing to move, but something was holding him down.

Dorian felt blindly for his chest, only to touch the soft cartilage of a pointed ear. Managing to take a peek through the incessant stinging, he lifted his head slightly and saw Sera, out cold and on his rib cage, Lavellan sprawled over his legs in a heap. Any other man might be delighted to be surrounded by women like this, but this was neither the time nor the place to make such crass observations.

He was the first to come around after the bombardment of the gasses, apparently. Body mass likely had something to do with why the effects of the bombs had worn off quicker in him than in them. There was a deafening ringing in his ears still present from the close proximity to the flash grenades, and he shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Then he remembered the dire situation as he'd last seen it, and his blood ran cold.

Where was Lady Cassandra? And where were their attackers?

As he carefully leaned up and nudged the women aside, the ringing began to fade, and when he heard the pitiful cries coming from somewhere above him, Dorian grabbed his staff from the ground on his right and looked up.

"She killed Boland! Son of a bitch, where's his head?!"

"She killed _all of us!_ Don't you _get it?!_ "

"Shut up! Wash your eyes out before the crystals start growing!"

"We're dead! …I can't die on the surface! Why didn't you just slit her throat like we were supposed to?!"

Dorian was nonplussed. In a daze, he rose to his feet in unsteady fashion and slowly crested the hillside, listening to the hopeless, agonised cries of a slew of men. His dark brows drew together, and a small part of him didn't desire to see what was happening, but he had to find Cassandra.

When he finally saw their faces, the altus wished that he hadn't been so curious.

The small red crystals protruding from the ground were horrifically familiar. More jarring than this, though, was the state of the team of trained assassins. Crawling on the ground, they meandered between the ominous stones about the hilltop, holding their eyes with shaking hands, their gloves smattered with burn holes. Their faces were contorted in pain, some of them clawing at their skin in a desperate attempt to rid themselves of their torturous affliction.

Dorian processed this in merely a handful of seconds, glancing around the body-strewn grounds for his friend. She was nowhere to be seen, though, not even her shield nearby to offer reassurances. They hadn't taken her – clearly, or they would be long gone as well, and a fleeting hope filled him that she had escaped the onslaught. Taking a deep breath, he went to the nearest dwarf and picked him up by the collar. It looked easier than it was, actually, as the man was practically a boulder in weight due to his sheer muscle mass.

"What have you done with her?" He breathed into the man's face. Then he pulled back suddenly, noticing the heat radiating from the dwarf, and when the stout man's eyes opened, Dorian dropped him like a stone.

They were as red and fiery as hot coals, and glowing just as bright.

"One of the mages," the man wheezed, grasping the ends of Dorian's long coat as if he was a priest come to deliver him to salvation. "Please, I'm _begging_ you – _kill me._ I'm a dead man! _Just kill me!_ "

"I'd be happy to oblige, but first I really must ask: Where is – _Maker's Breath!_ "

He let out a cry of alarm, jumping back, but was kept near due to the fingers clenching his coat like individual vice grips. The red eyes of the man had sprouted deadly crystals in mere seconds, and the dwarf, unable to blink any longer, let out such an inhuman groan that Dorian felt he was no longer capable of cooperating through the agony. As a small act of mercy, he shot him in the throat with the flame staff and ended the poor fellow's suffering.

Glancing around quickly, he found another man who seemed better off than his cohorts and leaned down, careful not to get too close this time. "Cassandra – the woman who was with us! Tell me –"

A war horn blared just behind him, and Dorian turned in the nick of time to watch as several of his companions raced to the hilltop, swords, battle axes, crossbows, daggers, and staves at the ready. "Wait!" But it was too late.

They tore through the area, swinging and firing at will. It was a massacre, a bloodbath, and the only ones who paused in their actions were Cole and Varric, who looked around in a palpable mix of astonishment, horror, and bafflement. Cole felt the suffering firsthand – it was written all over his gaunt face as he stood motionless, battered by the sensations and emotions careening off the stones and directly into his spirit. Varric, however, was turning over bodies one by one, quite obviously looking for the Seeker amongst the dead, though he reeled at the all-too-familiar sight of red lyrium all around him. One could even smell the stuff, if one tried: like charcoal and burnt ozone. The fear in his friend's eyes upon finding it here, of all places, was enough to send a chill up Dorian's spine.

The pitiful lackeys had all been put down, not one of them left standing or breathing. In frustration, the mage threw his hands up, kicking bodies in hopes of eliciting a response. " _Wonderful_ _timing_ ," he glared sardonically. "It's not as if they might have had pertinent information! No, go ahead and slaughter the lot!" Huffing with annoyance, he rolled his eyes and raced down the hill to the elven women, Solas following closely on his heels.

"Is the Inquisitor hurt?" The apostate asked hurriedly, bending down to rub her back in an attempt to rouse her.

Dorian did the same for Sera, his heart beating within him rapidly. "No. They weren't after us, I don't think," he replied quietly, pleased at least that Sera was mumbling and coughing as she awoke.

"Where'd they go?" She lifted her head, hurriedly trying to get her arms under her to push herself up. "Are they dead?"

Nodding, the Tevinter stood up and helped her to her feet, Solas and Inquisitor Lavellan not far behind him as he guided Sera up the hill to join the rest.

By now, Bull, Blackwall, and Varric had turned the bodies over, all of them now piled in a heap at the far end. "Don't touch it," Varric warned them of the red lyrium again and again, panting as he turned in circles. He appeared frantic, almost outside himself as he searched and found nothing. " _Seeker_ ," he shouted for her, his voice on the verge of breaking. " _Seeker!"_

"Where's Cassandra?" Lavellan suddenly straightened, walking to the centre of the group. Meeting the stunned faces of her companions, fear materialised behind her green eyes as she shook her head. "Did she get away…?"

And then he caught an unmistakable splash far off to his left.

Dorian turned, along with all else present, to find that Cole had walked past everyone, in plain sight yet unnoticed, to the end of the long dock high above the water, and had promptly dived into the swampy waters below. A tangible dread caused the blood to drain from his face, and without thinking twice, he bolted toward the dock in search of what Cole had found. The wood complained beneath his boots, and multiple hurried footsteps echoed behind him, though he didn't look back to see who else had acted on instinct, instead keeping his eyes on the dark water.

"I can't see anything," Dorian shook his head anxiously, wiping at his stinging eyes. They still burned like mad when he blinked. However, in light of what had befallen the Seeker, it made little sense to grumble about the slight irritation. "But Cole _must_ sense her in there!"

As if he'd been shot by an arrow through the chest, Varric crumbled and fell to his knees, a heartwrenching cry breaking from his thick throat. "Oh, _no_ ," he lamented, audibly on the verge of tears, "…I can't swim."

With that, Dorian knew what he had to do. Meeting the eyes of a horrified Blackwall, Dorian laid down his staff and rucksack, and jumped from the dock in his friend's stead without a care for his ruined ensemble, sucking in a lungful of air before breaking the water's surface to chase after Cole and hopefully rescue Cassandra.

**~oOo~**

Not even a second had gone before Blackwall passed quickly by and leapt in after Dorian, though it felt like an eternity to Varric. Devastation threatened to overwhelm him as he watched for any signs of life beneath the surface, his eyes shining with unspent tears. _Damn the Carta!_ He pounded his fist against a plank, and it shuddered beneath him precariously. Knowing it wouldn't do him any good to fall in as well, he stood and backed away a few steps, bumping softly into Madam de Fer, whom laid a hand on his shoulder as much for support as to hold him steady.

"She will be all right," Vivienne reassured him with a pat, and drew out her staff as she cast a ward around them. An arrow careened off the surface of the protective bubble, drawing Varric's attention from the water. Undead were drawn to the disturbance, firing from a short distance with longbows.

Well, at least it gave him something to do while he waited.

The mages had all assembled at his back to rain lightning, ice, and fire down upon them, and before long, Sera had climbed to a high point on the rocks to his right, firing back at the dozen or so undead that attacked with impunity. Cocking Bianca, he unleashed a volley of his righteous anger on the creatures, Bull roaring as he ran to the shoreline and crushed any rotting fiends that dared to make their way to land.

All the while, Varric simply aimed and fired, adjusting the bolt feed automatically, unable to process the events as they transpired while he practically left his own body to join his friends in spirit to save her. What was taking them so long? Had they found her, yet? Or worse… had they found her body? His thoughts were all-consuming, mind racing with questions, heart yearning for answers. The wait was killing him, though to be fair, he couldn't tell how long it had been since Cole first dove in, the compassionate spirit drawn like a magnet to her hurt. But that was promising in itself, since she would need to be alive for Cole to feel her at all… That was how this spirit shit worked, right?

For the second time that day, Varric prayed.

As though the Maker Himself had answered, Dorian breached the surface with an explosion of a gasp, his hair plastered over his eyes, which forced him to stop treading water as he pushed the black locks back.

" _Did you find her?!_ " Varric continued to pull Bianca's trigger as he looked down, hope giving way to despair when he saw the look on the man's face.

It started as a mere wince, morphing slowly to an expression of tragic loss as he opened his mouth to reply. Having no words, Dorian averted his eyes and swam for the shore, Iron Bull reaching out with his large hands to grab hold of him. In his arms, Dorian carried both her sword and shield, causing the dwarf to reel in a moment's horror.

Then Blackwall burst out from below, a body clearly in tow as he swam on his side with an arm, keeping her face above water and toward the sky while also fighting his steel armour to remain afloat.

The pale, blue quality of her skin sent a chill reverberating down his spine.

" _Fenedhis,_ " Solas swore breathlessly, taking off in an instant for the shore. The Inquisitor was not far behind him, the two racing to help by utilising any magic at their disposal.

Vivienne and Sera finished off the last of the undead handily, Varric barely able to assist anymore as he stared, a blank expression written over his face. Jumping down from the rocks, he heard the elf exclaim, " _Fucking shit!_ Is she dead?!" And at that, Vivienne grabbed him by the collar and forcibly hauled the stunned dwarf back to solid ground.

He was lost in a state of sheer denial, approaching the scene so despondently that it felt as though Sparkler had altered time, minutes appearing to last seconds. Coming to himself slowly, Varric realised that he actually _had_ done just that. Dorian was soaked from head to toe, concentrating on holding the distortion field while Bull guarded his back, Solas and Lavellan leaning over Cassandra and effectively blocking her from view. It was then that Vivienne left his side and passed through the perimeter of the spell, and she appeared to move in a rapid blur down toward the Seeker. All their movements were unnaturally swift, and Varric suddenly understood what Dorian was doing for them: giving the healers precious time for Cassandra to be revived.

When Varric turned to watch Cole walk out of the water like a ghost of the mire, the heavy metal components of her armour in hand, the Kid stared through him to his very soul. Every noise, from the rushing sounds of Dorian's incantation, to Sera's nervous chatter, to Blackwall's calm insistence that the elf calm down, was silenced to a dull thrum as Varric stared back at the Kid, lost in a trancelike state.

_It's not your fault._

Varric's brow furrowed in remorse, a solitary tear trickling from his eye, and he wiped it away angrily as he hoisted Bianca back into her holster. He shouldn't have stuck around to kill those Carta agents. He should have gone to her the minute the dwarf had revealed his cards. Instead, he stuck around for that fucking monologue like an amateur.

_It's not your fault._

He glanced up again, meeting the pale, penetrating eyes of his odd friend. How could it _not_ be his fault? They'd done this specifically to hurt _him_. And that alone meant that he was to blame.

… _It's not your fault_ …

Somehow, his grief parted from him for a brief moment, and he looked upon the scene playing out before him. Swallowing around the lump catching in his throat, Varric stepped forward and breached the glimmering pocket of time with a loud _whoosh!,_ all the voices of frantic effort now clear enough to decipher.

"Keep the neck straight! Don't jostle her about!"

"One. Two. Three. Four. Five."

"Breathe!"

"Check her pulse! And where is that infernal blanket?!"

"I'm getting it!"

"Nothing… Again!"

" _One. Two. Three. Four. Five._ "

"I'm not getting any response, _vhenan_ –"

" _Keep trying!_ "

"Tell me you gave her my pendant!"

Varric fell to his knees beside the Seeker's head, his hands reaching automatically to her face, so cold and lifeless, her abdomen swollen and her lips tinged a dark purple, yet somehow blood red. Her clothes were torn ragged, some barely covering what was decent. _Maker, what the hell happened to you down there?_

" _Fenedhis,_ Varric, answer me!"

Called back from his momentary mournful state, he met Solas' pleading eyes. _Shartan's necklace?_ What did that have to do with this?

And then he remembered what the elf had said all that long time ago in his study: _Andraste was burned alive whilst wearing her own. It was likely among her ashes, which theoretically might have contributed to their supposed healing powers._

The pendant was heavily enchanted.

Scrambling, Varric reached over Cassandra and felt beneath her collar for the thin gold chain, blocking all life-saving efforts for the moment. Letting out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, he pulled the pendant free, the Holy Symbol of Andraste warm to the touch and emitting a soft glow.

Solas fell back on his haunches, relief flooding through his bones. "It still works," he sighed, taking solace in the knowledge. "There's a good chance she will survive." He leaned up again, placing his hands below her sternum and pumping yet again. "One… Two… Three…"

In an act of desperation, Varric took a deep breath and leaned down, placing his lips over the Seeker's and exhaling the kiss of life.

Seconds passed, and then foul water nearly filled his mouth.

He leaned back in time to see her angled brows come together, litres of water spewing from her like a bubbling geyser. It spilled over her face, still coming forth as she heaved, forcing all liquid from her lungs. Her choking gasp was the sweetest music Varric had ever heard…

But then he noticed the change in hue of the water now pouring from her, and at last registered the dark veins along her throat and jaw, a sick realisation washing over him and freezing his blood in his veins.

"Nobody touch her," he rasped to them, emotional turmoil sawing his gruff voice in half. "Oh, shit, please, no. Don't tell me…"

With that, the distortion field around them fell, and Dorian collapsed, caught in mid-fall by Bull, who practically cradled the weakened mage like a babe in his arms.

"She needs warmth," Vivienne insisted, finally pulling the woollen field blanket from Lavellan's rucksack and quickly unravelling it.

"She needs air," Solas added as he tucked the ends around Cassandra, the woman gulping for air on the ground.

"I said don't _fucking touch her!"_

All eyes flying wide open, his companions froze. Not a sound could be heard beyond the Seeker's strangled coughing, no one daring to challenge the dwarf as he glared heatedly at them.

Without bothering to hide his emotions from them any longer, Varric shifted to her side and enveloped her, his chilled hands resting on her icy cheeks as she winced in agonised pain. Her mouth opened in an attempt to cry out, but her voice was non-existent, and the angle allowed for Varric to see the redness of her throat.

He shook his head in horrific denial, not wanting to accept the conclusions his mind was drawing, and grief shattered his face. "Seeker…?" He whispered to her, leaning close to her as he cupped her chin with his hands, his fingers tracing her jawline and moving over her slick, black hair. "Come on, baby, talk to me." His voice was desperate, searching, pleading, needing to see the truth in her eyes.

"' _Baby'_?" Sera suddenly blurted behind him. "Why's he calling Cassan – _Wait_. You're kidding!"

A chorus of shushes erupted all around him, silencing her in an instant, and after only a handful of seconds, Lavellan's slow gasp could be heard as well. But he didn't care, anymore. It wasn't that big of a secret anyway, apparently.

And when her eyes at last opened, Varric's soul was doused with fresh tears. " _No_ ," he denied the deep red in her irises, the last clue fitting into place. The lyrium shards. The agonised agents. The crystals sprouting from the bodies on the ground. It all made sense, but was at once senseless. "Tell me they didn't make you _drink_ that shit…!"

Cassandra seemed to have trouble making out his face above her own. She squinted painfully and made the slightest nod just before her chest lurched, and she turned her head in time to vomit on the grass, her body convulsing with violent shivers.

Red. A glowing red liquid. Not much, but damn it, enough to do some serious damage.

Varric leaned up and tossed Bianca from his back haphazardly to the ground, ripping off his coat, buttons flying every which way. He had to get her out of those wet clothes. Moving to her feet, he yanked her boots off and threw them over his broad shoulder, then placed his hands beneath the field blanket and took down her protective leggings with a practiced ease.

When Blackwall inched closer to assist, the dwarf swatted him away in a blind rage. " _Damn_ it, what part of 'don't _touch_ her' don't you understand?! This is _my_ fault, _my_ responsibility! She's mine, and _I'll_ take care of her! _Not you!_ Not _any of you!_ "

"Varric… You're upset… That's okay," Cole calmly stepped forward, remorse and empathy in his innocent voice. "It's not your fault… Let us help you…"

He relaxed long enough to sniff back his emotions, his eyes looking anywhere but at his friends, each of them silent and sympathetic in his grief.

"Just… Let me handle this one, okay?" He implored them, his spirit sinking ever further down. "I'm sorry, I just… I need to do this on my own."

Not meeting their open stares, he turned back to Cassandra, finishing what he'd started and sliding her uncharacteristically weak form into his warm, red coat. Then he wrapped the blanket tightly around her, lifted her from the ground, and left all of them standing on the banks as he walked away, leaving his companions to gather their belongings.

" _V-Varr-ic_ …" she whispered, her voice completely lost to the lyrium as she shivered in his arms.

He kissed her clammy forehead, holding her close, grateful, at least for now, that she was alive.

But he knew they weren't out of the woods, yet…

"It's okay; you're gonna be alright," he whispered back comfortingly, shifting her lolling head to his shoulder as he carried her back to camp. "I got you, Seeker. I won't let you go… I'm taking you home."

**~oOo~**

The remainder of the sad day passed in a relative blur, the sombreness of what had nearly taken place rattling them to their cores. Lunch was barely touched, after which no one felt particularly keen to venture out of camp again, and after Varric's fevered insistence earlier that he alone be accountable for Cassandra's care, none felt brave enough to approach their tent to ask after their welfare. Blackwall nervously whittled away at sticks, creating crude arrows for Sera, whom test fired them at a nearby dead tree when she wasn't hacking up a lung and complaining about her double vision ruining her aim. Solas meditated quietly, seeking clarity and guidance from spirits pressing against the thin veil of the Fallow Mire. Iron Bull, when he was not pacing fretfully, chose to hit things, be they rock faces with his bare fists or trees with his battle axe, until the Inquisitor quietly suggested he instead take his aggression out on a log pile to chop firewood for the night. Vivienne busied herself by writing letters to the Circle in Montsimmard, the Imperial Palace, and other friends in high places with whom she had leverage at the behest of Lavellan, hoping they might offer something in the way of information on the attackers and their motives.

As for Dorian, he'd spent the majority of his time cleaning his garments between bouts of coughing brought on by the dwarves' chemical gasses. He detested the splotches, the bits of pond scum that had leeched into his fine silks, threatening to stain the clothes a putrid greenish-brown, and when he wasn't scrubbing them for all he was worth, he was boiling water to immerse them in the cauldron, lowering his face to the steam in an effort to relieve his dry eyes and open his clogged pores – at least until Lavellan had distracted him by making tea and promising to craft the ruined pieces for him again. After the tea, which had done much to soothe their throats, she had used the opportunity to gently prise the cauldron from his possession, stating rather rationally that she required it to cook their supper. Reluctantly, Dorian had parted with it and, not having anything else to do, he walked to the water's edge and went to his knees.

For a long moment, he simply stared at his reflection. He looked repulsive in the fading light of day, his hair having long-since dried after he'd dived headfirst into the swamp. The worst part of that endeavour had been trying to find Cole through the haze, only to then discover the boy fervently fending off a bloodthirsty horde of undead monsters bent on tearing through the Seeker's armour to do Maker-knew-what with her. Luckily, Cole and Blackwall had held them off whilst he'd set about melting the iron clamp holding Cassandra under. Though the struggle had been worth it in the end, Dorian had to admit to himself that he could have, and should have, done better for her. Had he not been taken out so effortlessly, he might have spared his friends the suffering they now endured. _Maker's Breath, what is Varric putting himself through?_ If Dorian felt such guilt, there was no telling the sorts of hells in which he was currently burning.

"Hey… You okay?"

Dorian glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of horn and muscle before strategically turning his back to him to hide his filthy face. "I've been better," he replied solemnly, cupping his hands below the surface. It didn't make much sense to rinse his skin in the same waters that had mottled it, but there wasn't much choice, out here. He could hardly justify using their limited drinking water to clean his face. Splashing himself, he patted himself dry on a soft towel over his shoulder. "Hopefully, I should be back to my normally attractive self in good time, but it won't come soon enough."

Bull approached quietly and took a knee beside him, resting a warm, calloused hand with concern on his chilled shoulder. "I didn't mean that, _kadan_. What you went through was rough, and… I was scared for a cool minute earlier when we were running to see what the crap was going on. And I thought that was brave, jumping in and casting those spells and shit… But I wanted to see how you were holding up, now that the worst is over."

Dorian straightened, meeting the mercenary's eyes directly in surprise. "Oh... Truly?" He knew his appearance was quite different from what his casual lover was accustomed to seeing, but Bull didn't seem to mind the change, and had he been donning a sleeve, his heart would now be plainly worn upon it. "I'm fine, but I… didn't know you cared so much," and he paused to swallow the lump in his throat before adding a quiet, "… _amatus._ "

Bull planted a possessive kiss just above his ear as he rose to his feet and held a hand out for Dorian to leverage himself upright again, walking with him back toward the fireside, where the tantalising aromas of supper were brewing, signalling the meal ahead. "'Course I do. Especially when it comes to you, _kadan._ "

They each took their places by the campfire, save Solas, whom had retired to a tent hours ago when his meditation was complete and he was prepared to enter the Fade. Steaming bowls warmed their hands as they shared the stew in silence for a time, the only sounds that of their wooden spoons tapping against the rims of the plain clay pottery. Dorian kept his back to the tents lining the hillside, Bull sitting close on his left and Sera on his right. Lavellan sat directly across the fire from him beside Vivienne and Blackwall, pausing occasionally to fight past a wheezing cough. Blackwall had added healing roots to the stew, and though they gave it a distinctly pungent aftertaste, their effects felt blissful as he swallowed, the properties numbing much of his lingering pain and dryness.

Everyone was wondering the same thing: Whether Cassandra was still fighting for life in her tent. They'd had nothing in the way of updates from Varric, and hadn't heard a sound coming from that direction all day. Hopefully they were both resting; Andraste's sake, they certainly needed it after everything that had transpired, especially given that the Lady Seeker hadn't slept the previous night. He sighed to himself as he picked through the remnants of his bowl, knowing that if there indeed was in issue, they would have no doubt heard about it, by now. As it was, she seemed quite peaceful under the circumstances, and that was all they could hope for, for now. Cassandra was ever the she-warrior, a strong individual through and through. She would pull through this.

But even then, she was likely suffering. And most assuredly in a great deal of danger.

Bull was the one to at last break the silence, bothered by the fog rolling in, which cast an eerie glow around the fire. "You think she'll survive till we can get her back to Skyhold?" He asked in a sceptical tone, keeping his voice down in case their dwarven companion happened to overhear and object to the morbid topic.

A huff snorted out to Dorian's right, and he turned to find Sera moping sullenly over the last remaining spoonfuls of her supper. "Why bother movin' her? Bite it here or there; what's the difference?" A quiet moment of shock at her bluntness swept over them, and she glanced around at all the faces staring back at her. "…Yeah, that's a bit dark, innit," she agreed with their unspoken outrage.

After a moment of consideration, Lavellan set down her bowl on the grass and released a pained sigh. "It's all right, Sera. We were all thinking it, after all."

Madam de Fer craned her slender neck as she spoke in hushed tones to the Inquisitor, though the sound carried to all of them, regardless. "The diseased tissues collected will reach our Spymaster sometime tomorrow by raven, and the numerous letters I entrusted to one of Miss Harding's scouts will be delivered the next; I made him promise to ride hard, as they are time-sensitive documents. By the time we ourselves arrive, an antidote will surely be ready." Cassandra would also need a dosing of that antidote, but none present desired to mention something so bleak. "As for the red lyrium, however…" She shook her head and trailed off, a hand over her mouth as she thought and a marked worry making itself known behind her deep brown eyes.

"Cullen can help out with that," Bull said, quietly confident in his assertion. "He kicked the blue stuff; it wasn't easy, but he knows what it'll take for Cass to get through the worst parts. He's way more familiar than us about what she'll have to fight."

"This is totally different, though," Lavellan winced, her hands clasped as if in prayer to her various gods. "We don't know what kind of damage a dose of red lyrium is capable of inflicting compared to the blue… It may not be as easy as you make it sound…"

A worry line etching itself between his brows, Dorian stared at his folded arms, a thought crossing his mind as a gentle breeze stirred the fog around them. "…Maybe it was a blessing in disguise when those thugs threw her in the swamp." When his observation received a handful of raised eyebrows, he took a deep breath and clarified, "I mean that the water must have… washed most of it out of her. Don't misunderstand me – I don't think it wasn't also _terrible_ , of course… But there are times when an ounce of grace can grow from something so hideously vile… As well we should know, right?"

Blackwall let out a low hum of reluctant agreement, stroking his beard with a handkerchief to rid it of any remnants of the stew. "True enough. Maybe we can rest easier tonight knowing she didn't keep it all down. Still, I vote we leave for Skyhold around mid-morning at the latest. Bull's right: The Commander might be crucial to Cassandra's long-term recovery. And strategies for capturing Samson _alive_ will need to be worked out straight away," he added, nodding toward Lavellan in deference to her final decision. "You never know. The bastard might hold a central key to all this."

The elven mage lowered her marked face to her hands and rubbed hard at her aching eyes. After a handful of seconds, she sat up and looked at them somewhat apologetically, as if she'd played a role in all this, though Dorian couldn't imagine why she would think such rubbish. "Right," she sighed tiredly, "I've been putting everything off for too long… If I'd just pulled my finger out, maybe Cass wouldn't have… But never mind. We should –"

It was then that a disturbance over Dorian's left shoulder caught his attention, and he turned in hopes that Varric was getting up to report on Cassandra's condition. His eyes fully expecting the dwarf to emerge from the far-off tent, he instead was slightly disappointed to find their very own hobo apostate, standing straight and proud as he looked up at the night sky, though there was a stiffness in his shoulders… As if he was flummoxed, or frustrated by something.

"Did your little spirit friends tell you anything particularly fascinating, Solas?" He quipped sarcastically, smirking out of the corner of his eye at Bull.

Solas waited a moment before turning toward the fire, and he took a deep breath, tucking his chin toward his chest as he walked to them, his hands placed lightly on his hips. "Actually, yes," he pursed his full lips, a critical eye scrutinising the group.

They stared at the elf in anticipation, wondering why he simply stood there looking at them as if they were half-crazed before he spoke again, an undeniable edge in his tone. "How are you all feeling this evening?" He asked abruptly, studying them critically. "Much the same as usual, would you say?"

"We feel quite satisfactory, all things being as they are, my dear," Vivienne smiled disingenuously at him. "We've all been coming up with a strategy to move forward while you were away gallivanting with your unseemly acquaintances."

He didn't rise to the insult, nor did he seem to buy this explanation a bit, and his eyes shifted to Lavellan as his brows lowered. " _All_ of you are present here, coming up with careful plans? Are you certain of that fact? You've not been sitting in an odd fog?"

His peppered questions were confusing everyone. "Well, _you_ can see the fog, can't you?" Blackwall practically laughed, waving a hand in indication of the weather conditions around them.

Closing his eyes in exasperation, Solas turned his back on them for a moment and walked to the Seeker's tent. He parted the cloth at the entrance and poked his shining head inside, nodded once in confirmation, and strode back over to them, his jaw set in such a way that made Dorian pause. What was he on about? What could possibly make him act like a father trying to catch his small children in a lie?

"What's going on, Solas?" Lavellan wondered, growing more concerned for his state of mind.

"Get on with it," Sera demanded, losing patience with his leading questions, "and stop moving about like you got a stick stuck up yer arse."

Bull leaned forward to warm his hands near the fire. "How is she?" He asked Solas, cocking his head toward the crimson tent at his back.

"Seeker Cassandra?" Solas replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm sure she's halfway to Skyhold, by now."

"What?!" Lavellan rose suddenly, making her way over to him in a near panic.

The shock hit them like a pile of bricks falling from overhead, and Dorian, completely flabbergasted, stood and moved quickly for the tent Cassandra and Varric had shared the night before, and until then were assumed to be residing in. There was no way this was possible, he denied Solas' revelation outright.

But as he threw the tent flaps open, the altus found the confines desolate and unoccupied but for a solitary cot left utterly untouched, and one single slip of parchment. Stepping inside, Dorian bent low and reached out with cold, shaking fingers, reading the unsteady script.

"What does it say?" Bull pressed, now standing just outside and ducking to peer in at him.

"Exactly what you'd _think_ it says," he grumbled sorely. Infuriated and desperate for answers, Dorian made his way back out and straight up to the elf, bewilderment fusing with outrage at the insane turn their night had taken. "How did _you_ come to find the truth before _us_?"

"The way one usually finds out," he replied plainly. "Someone told me that they had left us behind."

"Maker's Balls," Blackwall cried in alarm, charging forward to look in every tent just to be thorough as he held his head with a hand. "How come we didn't see a fucking thing?!"

Solas shook his smooth head slowly and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "You did, Blackwall. You _all_ did, but you cannot recall it to your minds."

Sera scoffed loudly. "Right, 'cos we were _facin'_ the _other way_ when Varric just walked off with a half-dead woman over 'is ruddy shoulders!"

Turning to the Inquisitor, Solas' eyes softened under her stare of frank misunderstanding. He spoke calmly, still hopeful that the group of campers could take in his words and realise under their own power that not only the two wayward lovers were missing from the fold.

"You would have a great deal of trouble remembering, my friends, if someone had gone to great lengths to be sure you had forgotten what you had seen."

**~oOo~**

The horse's worn reins were summarily handed off to a barely awake and alert stable boy, who led their beast to a stall for the night. His arms were aching after holding the Seeker steady in the saddle during the long ride, not to mention how he'd also hoisted her to a room upstairs and laid her on the empty bed, tucking her in soundly. The innkeeper was livid with him for claiming the only vacancy available before even approaching the long tables that could loosely be called a front desk to purchase a room for the night, but she had readily acquiesced after he'd thrown the full bag of gold at her and demanded she call for Redcliffe's best healers to tend to the sick woman on the bed.

The Gull and Lantern Tavern was still alive with townsfolk and music at this late hour, but at least it was filled with more seemly characters than The Hanged Man ever was. The interior was blessedly kept warm with hearth fires and lanterns that provided both comfort and ambiance, but he wasn't interested in remaining on the ground floor tonight. Drink could wait for another day.

Varric climbed the stairs and walked down the wide hallway, approaching the last door on the left with purpose. He hadn't meant to practically kick the door in, but that's just what he did, in essence startling the few mages within, who were now crowded around her bedside. "You're with the Inquisition," one of them observed with surprise, turning to him.

Varric took one look at the young man that had spoken up and shook his head, ignoring the words and instead focusing on their deliverer. "No. I want someone with more experience," he insisted gruffly. "Where's that elven botanist? Get her."

The mage pressed his lips to a fine line, his brown hair brushing over his brows as he looked down at the dwarf. "She's moved her facilities to the refugee camp," he explained, his voice only confirming his few years and immaturity. "I was trained in the Circle… I specialise in healing, as do my friends. We've healed many souls in Redcliffe, already. The innkeeper has provided your… eh, lady friend," he settled on the words as he glanced back at Cassandra, "with clean clothes and hot food, if she'll take them."

Recognition passed over Varric's eyes as the young man vouched for himself. "You're the kid we met before we kicked the Venatori out of the castle. Connor, right? Son of Arl Eamon and Arlessa Isolde?"

As if this was some painful reminder, the mage nodded in confirmation, though he seemed adamant to avoid talk of his parentage or lineage. "We should get started. What ails her?"

That bone-chilling gasping Cassandra had been making all day rang out again and, without answering the question, Varric moved instinctively to her side, brushing her hair comfortingly as she struggled to breathe around the fluid building up in her lungs. It seemed he didn't have much choice on who he could hire to tend to her. They would have to do.

She opened her bruised lids, the blood red of her irises taking the mages aback for a split second as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. Cassandra's heart rate increased, and she fought to breathe to keep up with it. "Voices," she croaked, her words rattling painfully in her throat. "So many…"

Varric nodded, doing his best to mask the fear residing behind his eyes. "It's okay, Seeker. These mages are all here to help you feel better."

She shook her head and winced, raising a battered hand to touch the cuts and bruises on her face. "Not – their voices," she pushed herself to say, the rawness of her mouth too much to stand long enough to explain further.

He knew the ones she referred to without her having to say so, and he shuddered, taking her hand and giving it a tender squeeze of reassurance. "Don't listen to them, baby," was all he was able to say before his voice ripped in two. Then he stood up and moved to the far corner to hide his face, pinching his nose in an effort to stave off fresh tears. She couldn't see him like this, or she could lose all hope. He needed her to believe she would make it so he could get her home… Moreover, Varric needed to believe she would pull through for his own sake.

Connor was at his back again, his shadow moving over him. "Is there a… demon in her?" He posed the question reluctantly, a tremor evident in his tone.

"No," Varric whispered, keeping his back to the mage. "She was ambushed by Carta agents – dwarven assassins," he clarified. "She fought like hell, but they forced red lyrium on her, made her ingest it." When Connor remained silent, Varric let out a rueful laugh as silently as he could manage. "See? I knew you weren't experienced enough for this shit."

"Not many are, to my knowing," Connor admitted, lowering his blue eyes, "but I do know what it's like to have something inside you that you desperately need help removing…" He looked back at the dwarf then, presenting himself with a veneer of professionalism. "Her symptoms are indicative of pneumonia, and possibly head trauma. I can treat her for that until I find out more about –"

"You've got till the morning," he interrupted with authority, turning to face the former heir of Redcliffe so he could see the seriousness in the dwarf's glare. "We're leaving for the Frostback Mountains as soon as the sun's up. If you do everything you can until then, I'll pay double your fee."

Alarmed, Connor shook his head hesitantly. "The chill of the mountains will only exacerbate her condition. Pneumonia is no common cold; it's potentially fatal if not properly cared for."

"Then properly care for her and we don't have any problems, do we?" Varric rasped threateningly, letting his eyes shift to Bianca's gleaming stock at his back in indication.

Though the threat was an empty bluff, it conveyed his desperate message loud and clear: Cassandra would be leaving at first light, and there was no time to argue the point. "Okay," Connor sighed dejectedly, "as you wish, but I'll ask you to leave for a few hours while we work."

" _No_ ," Varric barked angrily. "Why?"

The mage boy winced slightly. "It's better for us to be totally focused on the patient. We can't manage full concentration with a frantic husband waiting in the wings demanding updates every few minutes. And you'll be needing food and drink, as well as rest, if you want to make good time on your journey."

 _A frantic husband._ Varric didn't bother correcting Connor, either because he had been so caught off-guard by the title, or because he'd lost the ability to speak at that moment. _Fine,_ he thought, surprising even himself. _For all intents and purposes, I'm her husband._

Varric once again stepped around Connor and made his way to the bedside, taking Cassandra's limp hand from the patterned quilt. He grasped her chilly fingers with both hands, warming them with his breath before pressing them to his forehead as he considered what to do. He didn't want to leave her; every inch of him hated the very idea, but if he wanted them to do their jobs right, he'd have to let a few things slide.

At last, he looked up at the Seeker to find she had slipped into unconsciousness again, and he leaned over her to plant a soft kiss on the dark hairs above her temple. "I won't be far," he reassured her, at the same time reassuring himself. "I'll be downstairs if you need me…"

And with that, he placed her hand gently over her chest and walked out of the rented room, not looking back.

It was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. Waiting had never come easy for him. The temptation to drown his sorrows in a dozen pints of ale crossed his mind as he entered the tavern room, but his rational side quickly limited the amount to a half-dozen at most, with maybe a little meat and bread to sit in his stomach and keep from getting intoxicated. Taking up a table by the hearth where the bard strummed her lute, he raised a finger to the barmaid. She nodded her acknowledgement, going directly to the kitchens to rustle something up for him.

As lonely as he'd felt all day, he had never felt completely alone. The act of looking over his shoulder during the ride on horseback wasn't only done out of nervousness that a second attempt on the Seeker's life would be made, but also stemmed from a niggling sensation at the back of his mind of being watched that he just couldn't shake. Shifting himself to better relax in the wooden chair designed for humans, he leaned his elbows on the table and closed his eyes, head in hands as he let the hurt and the blame wash over him again. It should have been overpowering, but oddly it wasn't coming, and as a voice in his head meant to resemble his own conscience comforted him, he understood why the worst of his shame refused to take hold.

_You're doing everything you can… It's not your fault…_

Varric's face contorted as grief-stricken tears stung at his eyes, but even in the face of his self-flagellation, the corner of his lip turned up in a knowing smile.

"I know you don't wanna show yourself," he muttered quietly, feeling not quite so alone in his despondency any longer, "but thanks for coming with us, Kid… I didn't want anyone around at first, but… I'm glad you decided to tag along…"

As if in reply to his heartfelt sentiment, Varric felt a wave of merciful compassion envelop him, one lost spirit silently comforting another in the depths of his pain in the Gull and Lantern…


	24. The Art of Losing

There was no telling when he had finally drifted off. After all the food they'd brought out to his table like a king in a banquet hall, Varric had eventually slipped into such a deep slumber that he might as well have been in a coma. Whether he'd passed out mid-meal was up for debate, but as his shoulder was given a gentle prodding, the first thing he noticed was that the plates that had once covered the surface of the table were long gone.

"I apologise for disturbing you," the Tranquil at his side was saying. Though he spoke softly, his flat voice reverberated off the empty tavern walls easily. The place was dead, and there was nothing sadder than being the last man in the bar to go home for the night.

"I'm up," Varric mumbled through his slack mouth, pushing away the sleep from his throat with a cough and a throat clear for good measure. He took quick inventory of his belongings: Bianca was propped against the wall under the table, one boot had fallen to the floorboards beneath his chair, and his leather hair tie had disappeared somewhere. He was only wearing a loose-necked tunic. Where was his red coat? Oh, right, it was upstairs with –

"Oh, shit." How had he nearly forgotten _that_ of all things? Remembering that the Tranquil was still standing at the end of the table as if he was waiting to take the dwarf's breakfast order, Varric looked up, his eyes rounding with a naïve hopefulness. "Do the healers want me or something?"

"The mages have done all they can for your lady," Clemence replied, Varric suddenly pulling out the name from a file in his mind. "The final summation of their enterprises tonight shall be delivered in two forms, one of which is more promising than the other."

 _I don't think I've ever heard someone say, "I've got good news and bad news," and have it go over so blandly before,_ he thought. "Let's hear the 'more promising' summation first."

Clemence nodded, his crossed hands hidden below the wide sleeves of his immaculate Circle robes. "Treatment of the numerous superficial injuries sustained has been successful. She suffered a mild concussion, and had several dark contusions and abrasions on her back, neck, appendages, and face, all of which have been cleansed or healed as much as time constraints could allow. I have personally utilised my alchemical skills to concoct a healing potion that will prevent fluid from pooling in her lungs. I have also prescribed a tea to be consumed twice daily for fatigue, and another for her cough which can be taken four times daily at maximum. Should she follow this regimen strictly, she will recover in short order."

Varric looked down at his clasped hands and sighed with relief. "That sounds pretty positive. What's the bad news?"

The sounds of a scuffle were heard coming from the first floor, and the crashing of a vase followed soon thereafter. Varric leaned down to put on his leather boot before straightening, ready to bolt at any second.

"She is… conscious," Clemence answered.

Unable to understand how that could be considered a negative outcome, Varric laid a grateful hand on the Tranquil as he passed, turning swiftly through the maze of tables and chairs until he was free to pick up the pace toward the stairs. As he reached the first landing, he rubbed a hand roughly over his face to clear the remnants of sleep from his eyes and climbed the rest of the steps to the rooms.

The last thing he expected to see were the two remaining mages holding tightly to the doorknob in the hall, fighting to keep the door from opening as Cassandra threw objects at it from the other side, causing it to rattle on its hinges.

"What the hell did you do to get her so mad?" Varric asked in disbelief, gesturing toward the room as she shouted something unintelligible about mages in general. It was perturbing at best to hear such hatred in her tone.

Connor shot him a perplexed stare, his head shaking back and forth in frank denial. "We finished up, packed some of our things together, and when we dressed her she just – she – w-well…" His knuckles shone white as he gripped the handle harder, Cassandra pounding on the wood for a moment before all went silent. A trembling sigh escaped him as he prematurely assumed her tantrum was over, but his hopes were dashed in an instant's terror as her sword plunged through the wood near their heads, their cries of alarm ringing out.

Maybe the red lyrium was affecting her mood more prominently now that her other ailments were largely dispelled. He'd have to try calming her down, and there probably wasn't a chance of doing that with the mages around. "Okay, on three, you boys take off back to the Chantry. I'll get somebody to bring over your belongings. Ready?"

The two men nodded, preparing themselves to release the knob and get as far away as humanly possible while the Seeker strained to wrench her longsword free.

"Three."

Apparently they'd expected Varric to count them off and, glancing at one another in uncertainty for a moment, they relented and raced down the hall, descending the stairs in a mad rush for the exit.

At the same time, the Seeker pulled her sword free and threw the bedroom door wide, her head peeking out to look for their faces, but found only the merchant prince standing in the hallway, offering her a shrug and a soft smile. Her eyes seemed a more sinister red than ever before, and he swallowed hard against the dread ebbing over his carefree expression. "Feeling any better?" He asked nervously.

She lunged at him in a blur of motion, her sword raised high. "Die in the Void, _dwarf!_ "

He side-stepped her, and the panic spread through him as her sword collided with the sideboard, cutting it cleanly in half. Varric hastily rolled into the confines of the warm, dim room, looking for anything to protect himself. Snatching up her shield, he turned to face her before throwing his hand blindly backward over the top of the dresser, knocking over several items on display and finally grasping the long stem of a three-tier candle holder, holding it out defensively. "Whoa, okay, hold on, Seeker," he attempted to coax her down, "just relax for a second and –" He raised the shield to block her sword and the vibration nearly numbed his hand.

"You have taken my shield! _Thieving dwarf!_ " She swung again, obviously not playing around.

"What _else_ was I supposed to –"

" _You have no honour!_ "

"I get that a lot," he shrugged ruefully, catching his breath. Braving a glance from behind the sheet of steel, Varric's eyes widened at the sight of her silhouette against the low fire. "They put you in a _dress?_ "

" _You_ put me in _chains_ and left me to die!"

His jaw dropped at her accusation. She was blindly mistaking him for one of the Carta's assassins. "Wait a minute, I bear some guilt in what happened, sure, but I'm not _actually_ the guy who –" He blocked again just in time. "Damn it, Seeker, let me explain!"

"Tell your story to the Maker," she thundered. "He will judge your soul righteously!"

She was out of her mind. That shit they forced her to drink tended to make people see red – literally in her case, as her eyes burned bright and spoke of the evil coursing through her veins. When she swung her sword low, he leapt up and barely missed being grazed, rolling to the bed and climbing on the mattress, where he stood back and pleaded his case.

"That's right! Stories," he nodded, eager for her to remember. "That's what I do – that's how we met! _Tale of the Champion_? Dark dungeon, bloodied nose, stabbed book? Any of this ringing any bells?"

She paused, but only so she could come around to the side of the bed, charging forward to grab him. Varric jumped back down on the other side and kept the bed between them, deciding somewhat foolishly to lay the shield and candle holder down on the blanket. "Here, take 'em. Consider it a token of goodwill. Alright?" _Shit, I hope she doesn't throttle me right now,_ he very nearly prayed. _Maybe leaving the others behind wasn't such a good idea, in the grand scheme of things._

"I don't know you," Cassandra snarled, taking her shield back into her possession. "You're an assassin, a criminal; that is all I need to know!"

The door opened behind her, and they turned to see who was dumb enough to interrupt their scrap, but it closed again only a moment later, seemingly no one there at all. Not bothered at all by the ghostly happenings, she turned back toward the dwarf, glaring with fire in her eyes.

"I'm not an assassin. I'm Varric Tethras," he spoke calmly, watching as the beads of sweat gathered on her forehead and cascaded down her temples, the lyrium and her fever cooking her from the inside out. "And you," he gestured, careful not to make any sudden movements, "are Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast. I know, I've been practicing," he couldn't help smirking through his quiet, nervous laughter.

Cassandra stood to her full height and towered over him, her sword and shield relaxing at her sides and her commoner's dress pooling around her shins. "How in Andraste's name did you know that, _scum_?" She barked, her chest puffing out indignantly as she stepped closer, the threat imminent in her posture.

He snapped his fingers through his gloves, an idea coming to him at mention of the Holy Prophet. "Canticle of Trials: Hymn One," he blurted, stumbling over the words while scrambling out of her way. "Maker, my enemies are abundant! Many are those who rise up against me!" Speaking of rising up, she'd pinned his back to the wall, gathering the loose neck of his tunic and lifting him from the ground, murder in her eyes. She was boiling alive, the heat radiating from her like standing too close to hot coals. Grasping her fist while marvelling at her strength, his legs dangled half a metre off the floor. Still, Varric went on, anxious to reach her. "But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, Should they set themselves against me –"

"And how does a _dwarf_ know the Holy Chant?"

"That didn't _work?_ Shit, I've read _way_ too many books."

He watched as Cole materialised by the bedside table, casually rummaging around the many vials, utensils, and toiletries until he came across Cassandra's necklace, which must have been removed by the healers. Apparently bent on wasting as much time as possible, the Kid slowly found the ends of the chain and raised the pendant to his eyes. Realising it was facing the wrong way, he tried to switch the clasp from one hand to the other, but one side slipped through his grasp and fell. Luckily, he was still clinging to the other end, and pinched the clasp carefully before bring it back up to his face.

But Varric was prevented from looking on as her blade lifted to his neck, his head craning back to avoid the gleaming steel. "Hurry up, Kid," he grumbled, his patience waning considerably. "Haven't got all day, here."

Cassandra was too focused on the dwarf in her grasp to notice the pendant come over her head, the golden sun resting soundly in the middle of her chest. After securing it to her neck, Cole nodded in satisfaction and headed for the door. "I'll ask the horse if he's ready to take us to Skyhold, now," he said, though Cassandra didn't react to his voice whatsoever.

"Yeah, you do that," Varric rasped in cynical annoyance. "Don't worry about me; I got this."

"Okay," Cole nodded, stepping through the door frame, "I will wait for you." The spirit closed what remained of the door quietly behind him.

The dwarf rolled his eyes, gripping her wrists tighter as he felt her strength wane precariously. "Note to self: don't use sarcasm in front of the Kid." Varric quipped to himself before the Seeker suddenly dropped him and fell back in a heap on the floor, gasping for breath.

Rubbing at the reddened spot on his chest where her fist had been, he forced himself to his knees and walked the short distance to her side, noting the glow of the pendant glimmering on her chest. Whatever magic was imbued in that thing was keeping the worst effects of the red lyrium at bay for now. Hopefully it would continue to do so until something more substantial could be done.

"It's okay, Cassandra. Nobody's gonna hurt you," he kept his voice low.

The lyrium in her eyes gradually faded to a reddish-brown hue, and her blind rage subsided to a confused frustration. "Where have you taken me?" She asked, feeling for the braid that had come undone from her crown. She shot him a strange look then, as if he had never earned the right to address her so casually.

Varric tried to help her sit up, but she surprised him anew by shoving him off. Recovering a moment later, he clarified, "We're in Redcliffe Village. You weren't feeling so hot, so I stopped here for the night." He smiled and let out a breath, looking down as he clapped a hand against her shoulder. "Sorry for not taking you as seriously as I should've. I guess I was just happy to see you back to your old self. Well, your _older_ self," he amended, running a hand over his loose hair.

"Redcliffe," she finally caught her second wind, narrowing her eyes as she calculated something. "If I haven't lost too much time, we could be at Haven before evening."

Varric froze in place, his eyes locking on her own. "… _Haven?_ "

Cassandra looked up at him with disdain, disheartening him further. "I am fed up with your attitude regarding this, _Varric._ You are telling your story to the Divine, and I will _not_ tolerate further delays! Am I making myself clear?"

When he'd joked that Cassandra was back to her older, more belligerent self around him, he hadn't meant it so literally. His blood was cold, face paling as he continued to stare in disbelief. "Not exactly," he said breathlessly, wondering just how hard the assassins had hit her. "…Are you feeling alright?" _Well, that's the dumbest question you've ever asked,_ he thought derisively.

" _Ugh_ ," the Seeker scoffed, getting her bare feet under her. "Leliana is expecting me. We must get to the Conclave and join the negotiations." Then she leaned forward and began to cough, her body racking as she fought for breath.

"Hey, slow down," he encouraged her, his hands resting on her arms. "I need you to think for a minute before we get going, because if you're not right, we'll need to call for the mages again."

Disgusted with him, she threw his hands away from her. "How _dare_ you touch me?!" She choked out, "Do not lay a finger on me!"

Cassandra was all over the place. One minute she was accusing him of being with the assassins who tried to take her life, the next she appeared to have no memory at all. Leaning back and landing with a thud on the floor, Varric ran a trembling hand over his face, rubbing at the stubble on his chin in concern. She was staring at him as if he was the one here who was half-crazed, and considering his life over the past several months, Varric nearly believed he had hallucinated every minute of it. But no, she'd suffered a concussion and whatever memory loss she was experiencing after being unconscious was only temporary… Probably.

"Uh… Okay, look, I won't touch you if you don't want me to, but do me a favour: Tell me the last thing you remember, and before you give me an answer, think about it long and hard… Take your time."

The Seeker's glare faltered after a time, her strange eyes darting back and forth. "I remember we were…" She shook her head slowly, holding the side of her face with a hand. "Wait, that is not…" Cassandra lifted her gaze to him, doubt evident in her expression. "I… don't know. It isn't coming to me." Her shoulders slumped, both hands finding her loose braid and fiddling with it nervously. "I'm very tired… and there is so much pain," she admitted after a moment of quiet reflection.

He hesitated for a handful of seconds, worry pulling the inner corners of his brows together. Silently holding his breath, he reached forward a shaky hand to lay on her knee, his thumb moving lightly over the beige dress covering her knee. Though she stiffened noticeably, she didn't push him away this time, and he let out the held breath with relief. "We need to get you back to Skyhold as soon as possible," he stated gently, hoping to jog her memory at the name. "They'll have experts who can get a better look at you, and I don't mind holding you while you rest on the way, Seeker… Do you think you can trust me long enough to get you there?"

"Trust _you?_ " Though she'd said it with an indignant revulsion, something in her tone betrayed her own reluctance to trust anything or anyone at this point. Even herself.

"Yeah… I know it's tough right now, but…" He didn't know how to prove himself to her without overstepping her fragile boundaries. Biting his lip in pensive thought, Varric rose and scoured the room, eventually finding her clothes and armour placed neatly on the far dresser along with his red coat, all buttons replaced and sown on with care. "Let's get you dressed in something more comfortable. I know you wouldn't be caught dead wearing –"

He winced at his poor choice of words. "…Never mind." He gathered the Seeker's garments and placed them beside her, leaving her side again to button up his coat and collect the various potions and dry teas left behind on the table with instructions from Clemence the Tranquil. After that, he painstakingly went over the room with a fine-toothed comb, packing up the last of the healers' tools of the trade.

As he was finishing, he turned to Cassandra again and was surprised to see her sitting on the end of the bed, watching him expectantly. "Something wrong?"

She made an oddly insistent face, nodding toward her armour before looking back at him. "Do you mind _leaving?_ "

Varric almost laughed at that. "It's not like I haven't seen…" He choked back the rest of his statement when her eyes shone with anger. Amending what he was about to say, he finished, "…A naked woman before… But you're right. I'll book us out and stop by the Chantry to give this stuff back… Be back soon. Don't try to take the stairs without me… please."

And he slung Connor's belongings over his shoulder, reminding himself to pick up Bianca from the table downstairs before they left this place behind.

**~oOo~**

The journey north along the shores of Lake Calenhad was a mixed bag. Holding the Seeker in the saddle was made easier by Cole, who had presented Varric with a sling that he used to strap around his back and secure around her. With Cassandra wrapped up in a blanket against his body for warmth, she was then able to drift off without too much discomfort. Getting her to take the tea was another story, though, and in hindsight maybe it hadn't been the greatest idea to raise the cup to her lips just as she was rousing. Her instant reaction nearly broke his heart all over again, his failure to come to her rescue in time a constant regret that tore at him incessantly.

The Kid rode in the saddle behind him, keeping silent vigil over his friends, and when it came time to head west up Gherlen's Pass and approach the looming gates of Orzammar, Cole helpfully directed Varric away from any groups he sensed might pose a threat. That meant going off-road for a while, but he'd have gladly gone over Avvar territory, deep into the Dales, and up over the other side of the Frostback Mountains just to keep the Carta away from Cassandra. As it stood, though, Gherlen's Pass was the fastest route to Skyhold, and he wasn't going to let that damned crime syndicate stand in the way of taking her to safety as quickly as possible.

One dwarven woman had seen them, however, and luckily it amounted to nothing in the moment. Though Varric was clearly recognised, Cole remained unseen as far as he could tell, and Cassandra's wrapped, unconscious form was mistaken for a lifeless body – or so the Kid whispered to him as they passed her. News would likely spread that the merchant prince was spotted hauling a wrapped human corpse up the mountain, and though the Carta would smugly assume they had properly taught him a lesson on meddling in their affairs, it suited his needs that, at least for now, they believed she was gone.

Night fell over the mountainside, and it had become apparent that their detours had robbed them of precious time. A cold wind consistently struck them from behind like daggers in their spines. The horse grunted and shook heavy flakes of snow from his mane, growing weary, yet determined to press on. Cassandra was shivering, convulsing in violent coughing fits which gradually lessened as time passed, and though that would normally bode well, he was deathly afraid she was losing the battle. Varric's gloved fingers felt like icicles hanging from his palms, brittle and stiff as he brought them to his mouth to warm them every few seconds. Plumes of hot air from their lungs hung before them like dragon's breath, growing thicker throughout their ascent.

And when at last the walls of the fortress came into view, Varric barely possessed the wherewithal to feel grateful at their journey's merciful end.

He was announced by a lone soldier high up on the ramparts when the horse came into view, other recruits answering with frantic shouts to wake the Commander. As the heavy iron gates lifted, Cole dismounted and made his way to the kitchens in search of food for them. The steed plodded through and habitually made for Master Dennet's stables, where the man was visibly aggrieved by the ominous blanket on his lap, unmoving as she was. Unable to raise his voice above a whisper, Varric signalled for assistance with unbuckling the harness, and the horsemaster quickly obliged, unstrapping the pair and taking Cassandra in his arms while the dwarf slid down, careful not to land on his weak ankle in this weather.

Master Dennet abruptly whirled on a heel, his eyes widening with alarm when he heard the body cough and gasp. "She's _alive?_ " When he was only met with a tired nod from Varric, he turned toward the rushing onlookers and cried out to them, " _Maker be praised! The Lady Seeker lives!_ "

Commander Cullen was racing down the staircase leading from his command post when he heard the news, and paused to lay a hand firmly over his heart, gripping the stone railing for support. Curious at this reaction, Varric turned warily as he removed his gloves, watching the crowd gather to see for themselves. He noticed Nightingale watching from her balcony, a hand covering her mouth while she observed the scene intensely, as if studying the proceedings. Ambassador Josephine pushed through the throng in time for Cullen to make his way over to Dennet, the man relieving Cassandra from the horsemaster's arms and checking for himself.

Apparently seeing was believing, and Cullen nodded in confirmation. "The infirmary?" He promptly asked the dwarf, concern in his eyes.

For some reason, Varric had assumed the Commander would whisk her away without preamble, forcing the dwarf to plod after him in search of the Seeker. Surprised (and relieved) that he was being consulted on the matter, Varric pressed his lips to a fine line. "Qu-quarters," he managed to shiver out, gesturing toward the Seeker to indicate he'd meant her own.

Immediately, Cullen followed his instructions, taking command of the situation. "I want Seeker Pentaghast's quarters prepared _now_ ," he barked at his men, all listening intently to their superior. "Get a fire going and boil plenty of water! Take blankets with you! And wake the mages; tell them to stand ready on my order!" Cradling her weight, he marched forward, the soldiers dispersing at his words and the pilgrims clearing a path for them, Josephine staying behind as she watched them go to the upper courtyard.

Varric pushed himself to follow, his legs frozen and stiff under him. The temperature had long-since dropped below freezing and the snowfall increased twofold as he started toward the stairs, pushing everyone back inside. Closing his weary eyes, he cupped his hands over his mouth and blew weakly, trying to restore warmth to his frostbitten fingers. His face was numb – come to think of it, everything was numb. Adding exposure to the list of ways in which he didn't care to die someday, he stumbled after the Commander, carefully placing his boots on the stone steps before putting weight on them, mindful of the slick ice.

The only way he had gotten through the day thus far was to focus on each task as it came, anchoring himself to Cassandra and focusing purely on getting her through this. Now that she was so literally out of his hands, he realised just how much he had neglected his own needs. But they didn't matter in the long run. With a warm fire and a night of rest, he would easily recover from this hellish journey.

The same, agonisingly enough, could not be said for Cassandra.

And he wondered if things would ever be the same again.

**~oOo~**

Voices carried all around, a torrent of ominous whispers coaxing her from the darkness that had ensnared her days and nights unending. Shards of fine glass coursed through her veins, ripping through her heart and tearing at her mind, cutting every piece of her with a pain so strong she could scarcely breathe. No thoughts broke through to calm her, no hands descended upon her form to soothe the sting. She was being taken somewhere beyond her knowing, the frigid cold snuffing out every morsel of heat before her body could generate anything remotely comforting.

…Why had the Maker abandoned her…?

What was being spoken was unclear, but that did not matter as much as the tone in which the distant words were delivered. Authority. Dignity. Urgency. Something had happened to stir her from unconsciousness, forcing her to witness this moment. She felt the urge to vomit rise, and without understanding why, she inched a trembling hand beneath her clothes, feeling for the metal sitting heavy on her chest. This was significant to her. This meant a great deal… But for the life of her, she could not comprehend what had caused her to reach for it.

Her fingers thawed, then her palm, and life began to fill her again, her soul replenished just enough to continue the fight. Suddenly she gasped hard, and what had at first felt hopeless gave way to a peaceful stillness, the thousands of threatening whispers in the dark silenced for now. Head lolling. Jostled about. Weapon taken. Heat provided. Enveloped in softness.

Her eyes fell open to reveal only red. She blinked several times blindly and, slowly but surely, the face above her came into view. A face full to the brim with horror, a hand clasped over a mouth, a sick, fervent denial shining behind sad eyes.

Cullen…

She must have made it to Haven, after all…

Gasping. Fighting. Coughing. A hand clapping her back. A voice snapping through the dark. She closed her eyes and focused on each breath as it waited just on the edge of her lips, waiting to be absorbed into her. _In… Out… Slow… Try…_

Gradually the heat began to reach her. Every nerve was at once on fire, yet numb and unfeeling, intangible as a wisp. She was leaned up, a vial's rim brought up to her tongue. A tear trickled from her eye as she hoped this time the liquid would end her suffering…

All was still, and then the world went black…

…Soft voices brought her back, consciousness an illusion to her. Different voices, external ones whispered nearby, yet somehow far away…

"…Maker's…seems overkill…"

"…why this happened… can't lose…"

"…Alexius… you… don't want to know what…"

It hurt immensely to concentrate for any length of time on what was said. She touched her face just to reassure herself that she indeed still possessed a body, tracing scar, jaw, ear… All felt solid, at least. The pain had lessened to a tolerable degree, but her heart still gave off an ache that couldn't be explained. Memories were clouded, and dizziness caused her stomach to lurch… Were those two connected somehow…? Had she suffered a blow to the head…?

"Why… the others behind… have helped…?"

"…wasn't the smartest… watched over her… my fault, Cullen… save her…"

Varric. Varric and Cullen were discussing something.

Peering to her right, she saw their shadowed figures just as they turned to her, catching her laboured movements. Silver fell from their eyes, black ooze pooling from their mouths as twin jaws dropped unnaturally low, hard screams piercing her soul.

Paralysed with fear, she shut her eyes tightly, only to open them and find the men still speaking in hushed tones, not noticing her desperation at all. None of what she had seen had been real.

She turned on the bed, desperately grasping the pendant on her chest once more, begging for reality to anchor her in the here and now before insanity dragged her into the dark. A tear fell and traced her earlobe before touching the pillow beneath her head. Cold filled her, and a cough leapt from her lungs.

The sounds of water could be heard. A door being closed quietly. The tell-tale sniff of staved off emotions. A shadow engulfed her – literally this time, as the dwarf reached down with tender arms and gathered her to him. A chest plate was set aside. Her buttons undone. Everything that should have sent her swinging for his head was done to her, yet she remained complacent through all of it. Somehow his touch felt familiar on her skin, the tenderness and care he took in removing her garments pacifying her until she was in a trancelike state.

When at last she wore naught but her smallclothes, he removed his coat and hung it on the bedpost. With extreme sensitivity, she felt her body lift from the warm confines of the bed, her head resting against the chill of the white cotton fabric on his shoulder.

But as he slowed and she felt him lower her into the water, something snapped into place.

At once, she was scrambling, limbs flying, and he lost his balance, dropping her in.

It had filled her to the brim. It had stifled her screams, choked her cries. It had claimed her very life. Not now… Then…

 _Helplessness_.

This time, though, the hands that fell upon her were not there to hold her under, instead pulling her free, clutching her so tightly that she had faith they would never release her again.

"Shh, I got you," Varric panted, the heart beneath his chest hair pounding fiercely. He was on the reclaimed wooden chair in her quarters, Cassandra half on his lap with her head against his chest, her legs submerged in her familiar steel tub. "I promised not to let you go, Seeker… I'm here…"

Her terror fell away to reveal the true horror lying dormant inside. She felt the tears rush to her burning eyes before she could fight them, as she had throughout her entire life. A mournful sob cut her voice in two, her fingers clutching his tunic in despair, and her spirit crumbled as memories, once forgotten, returned as fresh as the day they were formed.

"I remember," Cassandra gasped, shaking uncontrollably until she slid down his lap. "I remember what they did to me… Maker, I'm going to die, aren't I…?"

She felt Varric shiver, his body convulsing with silent tears he dared not cry aloud, lest he acknowledge her greatest fears. She buried her face against his thigh, her fists gripping his tunic as if he was a lifeline thrown out in one last ditch effort to save her from drowning in her sorrows.

And she held onto him for dear life.

**~oOo~**

Four days he stayed with her, not leaving Cassandra's side any longer than it took to relieve himself or report an update to the visitors outside her door. To them, his words were few and his presence fleeting. They brought the couple food, refilled her medicines, sent healers to examine her unchanging condition. Several had not only asked after her welfare, but his as well, and Varric had no answer for them that would soothe their doubts.

After the team returned on the second day, each of them had stopped by individually. Some, like Solas, Dorian, Vivienne, and Lavellan, offered to watch the Seeker for a time, while others such as Bull, Blackwall, and Sera asked him to come out and share a drink to talk it out, trying in their own ways to keep his optimism alive. Varric had turned them all down, preferring instead to be there for her, just as she had been there for him in Emprise du Lion.

When he wasn't lying in bed with her to keep her warm at night or comfort her with his presence, he was writing. Dorian had stopped by with his records on the third day, and he had whittled away the hours crunching numbers and replying to those in his network. Most things ended up as kindling for the fire, his numerous mistakes making the pages unintelligible at best. When he turned his mind to fiction, the story was even worse, in the most literal sense. Frustration had eventually forced him to set his work aside, and for the remainder of the fourth day, he simply sat in the chair set up next to her nightstand, his thoughts turning to hopeless prayers.

He was strict about Clemence's regimen. Tea was constantly brewing, and potions were always kept at the ready to treat her ailments. Though she hadn't had the heart for the food that Cole faithfully brought to them, Cassandra had forced herself to eat whatever was put in front of her, even if only a few bites could be kept down at a time. No matter what the prognosis was regarding her consumption of the red lyrium, she was keeping up her strength to fight another day. Varric had expected her to do no less than that.

A pang of guilt refused to leave him in peace for the entire duration. It grieved him to see her so frail and vulnerable, the strong woman he'd fallen in love with deteriorating despite his best efforts. But that had been his undoing, hadn't it? He had feared saying those words to her, fretting over the idea that he would be jinxing everything to reveal his heart to her, and now those fears had been realised in the worst possible way. Sometimes he truly hated being right all the damned time…

She spoke little to him, spending her days and nights concentrating on rest in order to recover from her concussion and the pneumonia, but anything she said in the confines of her quarters, he treasured. At times, she would whisper haunting replies to the song in her blood, whereas others she seemed completely lucid, sharing memories of her late brother in Nevarra or revealing secrets to him written in the Seeker's Tome. The only time he'd stopped Cassandra was when she spoke of the horror she'd felt the first time she saw a red templar, her breathing shallow and quick at the terrifying thought of becoming one of them, mindless and full of boundless rage.

Whenever she was at her worst, Shartan's pendant would react. He didn't know if Solas's theory about the Sacred Ashes of Andraste was right or not, but the healing powers stored within it consistently pulled the Seeker back from the brink, keeping the blight-infected lyrium in her blood from spreading. It didn't stop the pain for the most part, but the pendant appeared to work wonders as far as the rest of her symptoms were concerned. Countless times he wondered whether it was providence that had guided the necklace into his possession, for it had saved her life more than a handful of times since that day in the Fallow Mire. But something more permanent would have to be done for her, and soon. Any number of things might happen to it over her lifespan: the chain could break in battle, the pendant might be stolen or misplaced, or it could stop working altogether if the magic within it petered out from constant use. Whatever his gift granted her now may not last forever…

It was after supper on day four, and the keep outside her bedroom window was winding down for the night, nocturnal birds of prey calling out to one another in search of promising hunting grounds. Varric was half-dressed and holding her beneath the many covers, the proximity of his body providing her with warmth and reassurance. She had fallen asleep against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat the only thing she desired to anchor her to this place. If she could only hear the pain residing there, the regret he felt for having caused all this. Were it not for him, she wouldn't be suffering now, and in all the days they'd spent together, Varric had never told her why they had targeted her. Even if he'd tried, the words would have caught in his throat, his shame too great to bear…

They knocked on the door five times before letting themselves in. It creaked on its hinges as Curly and Hero creeped in, the fire providing the only source of light in which to view their mournful expressions. Varric only acknowledged them with a glance, his arms coming around the Seeker as she stirred at the cold draft they had let in. With a nod, Blackwall took up the seat by the bed, Cullen standing beside him as the man tried not to fidget. Clearly there was news of some kind, or they wouldn't be here.

"Varric," the Commander started in a whisper, his eyes shooting a cautious glance toward Cassandra's sleeping form, "it's time you came with me to the War Room."

He wanted to ask him what this was in regards to, but he decided against speaking, lest he disturb the woman in his arms. Instead, he let his expression do the talking for him.

Cullen's brows drew together, understanding his apprehension. "I, em… I know you can't be thrilled at the prospect of… of leaving for a small duration," he bit his lip, crossing his arms over his chest plate, "but it won't take too long. Josephine, Leliana and I have conducted interviews with your companions regarding the incident, but there are some gaps in the timeline that… we hoped you could fill for us…"

Varric's head was already shaking, his bare arms tightening around Cassandra's body as he shut his eyes in the vain hope that they would go away. His refusal was palpable, the mood in the room growing bitter with every passing second, and after a long pause, a large hand rested in reassurance on his bicep.

"I'll stay with her, Varric," Blackwall readily volunteered, though it was obvious Cullen had called on him to do exactly that from the beginning. "She won't even know you're gone before you're back. Alright…?"

He opened his eyes again, turning to the warrior with such a look of total despondency that the man squeezed his arm in sympathy. His reluctance ate at him, yet at the same time, he knew the day would come when he would have to do this, and his chest grew heavy as he felt himself nod.

"…Alright, Hero… I'll be back soon."

**~oOo~**

Cullen guided him down the long stretch of hallway leading to the enormous twin doors of the War Room. Varric's movements were on automatic, another part of his mind taking over to concentrate on the present as his thoughts remained perpetually in that dark corner they had inhabited for nearly a week. He could still feel her legs draped over his own, still hear her strained cough echoing in his ears, and since he still felt suspended in those dreadful moments on the banks of the swamp, it would be easy enough to recount what he knew and leave for her bed again as soon as this was over.

The Commander gave the doors a gentle push, the light inside spilling over the stones at his feet, and he slinked forward, letting his eyes adjust to his surroundings first before walking to the war table. Varric stopped a metre away, allowing the two women to eye him as Cullen made his way around to stand with them. All was silent as he stared at the floor, knowing that greeting them under the circumstances would be too forced and insincere.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with us," Josephine started things off, her tone indicating that she was somewhat unsure of where to begin. "We realise you had other obligations, but we have a few questions, and only you can provide the answers we seek."

Varric blinked a few times and nodded, raising his face to meet their gazes, but his mannerisms betrayed his deep sense of disquietude at the proceedings and his eagerness to get this over with.

Leliana met his stare and relaxed her body language to put him at ease. "This is by no means an interrogation, Varric. We've already asked the others who were with you both, but their information is limited by their own perspectives."

His jaw setting in determination, he reluctantly pushed his arm out in an inviting gesture. "Fire away," he said, his voice gravellier from disuse than it normally was.

"Alright," Cullen sighed, opening the proceedings. "A message was delivered to a scout on the mountains several days ago by a dwarf who refused to identify himself. Our man didn't have a chance to ask him what it was about before he turned and left." He looked toward Josephine as the Ambassador produced a parchment from her writing board. "A letter from the Carta, claiming responsibility for Cassandra's assassination."

"As you can imagine," Josephine continued, "we were all quite shocked and distressed."

They nodded gravely as Cullen explained, "We sent a detachment to the Fallow Mire that same day. They sent word to us via messenger that you and Seeker Cassandra were alive, as far as anyone knew, but that you had kidnapped her."

"I didn't kidnap her," Varric muttered in frustration, glaring in protest.

Josephine took a soft step forward. "We know that now, but –"

"Why did you leave the Inquisitor and her team behind?" Leliana interrupted harshly. "You risked not only _your_ life, but _Cassandra's_. They _could_ have helped you, but instead you abandoned them without word of where you had taken her! No one could locate you, and we all feared the worst until you rode in through the gate! What in the Bride's holy name made you act so stupidly?"

"Look," he tried to defend his actions, "on the outside looking in, it doesn't make much sense to you. I get where your concerns are coming from. The Seeker was in trouble, and I knew that if it was up for debate, they would have manned her tent with nothing but healers and I would have been shoved out of the picture. Nobody else was ready to travel; everyone was put through the ringer and too tired to move. So was I, but I had to take care of her – even if that meant leaving them in that festering swamp to get a head start. And the Kid – Cole – helped with that. I didn't ask him to; he just… followed us. He kept us safe on the road." He hung his head in shame. "Yeah, it was a stupid thing to do… But Cassandra's my responsibility."

"Why would _you_ be responsible for her, of all people?" Nightingale drilled him, incredulity dripping from her tone.

The dwarf pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, sighing in exasperation. "…The Carta were after me for Valammar," he confessed quietly. "They wanted revenge for the loss of their red lyrium mines. And they got it tenfold…"

Cullen's solemn voice contrasted with Leliana's verbal thrashing, the Spymaster taking a break to pace the length of the rear windows. "Madam de Fer informed us about the exchange with the Carta agents at Granite Point." Rationalising with what he knew, the Commander crossed his arms over his broad chest and posited, "The Inquisitor headed that shutdown, but she made it out relatively unscathed. As did you, Varric. If this was purely about Corypheus' operation, why would the Carta choose to target Seeker Cassandra instead of the person who actually spearheaded the mission?"

He could only offer them a meek shrug, averting his gaze as he gripped the wide collar of his coat. When he was met with only silence, he glanced up at them, his eyes conveying all the hurt and blame he had felt since that day.

Leliana ceased her pacing and placed her hands on the war table, leaning forward as she studied him like an open book. "So it is true," she murmured, her eyes narrowing a fraction when she deduced the obvious, as if the past few days weren't evidence enough of something more going on.

Varric had long-since given up on keeping things a secret and waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, pretty much whatever you were told is how things are between us," he relented bitterly.

"While that is… _astonishing_ , to say the least," the Antivan admitted, thoroughly surprised at the very idea of the two companions romantically involved, "it does not resolve the matter of _how_ the Carta knew to take advantage of the fact that you are… ah…" she hesitated before finally settling delicately on the phrase, "courting Lady Cassandra."

The words hadn't processed fully in his mind, utterly perplexing him on where exactly her confusion lay. "…I'm not following."

Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck to ease the tension there. "Varric," he attempted to clarify for Josephine, "we're not convinced that Valammar was sufficient enough for the Carta to retaliate against you personally. We know that's what they claimed when they spoke to you, but…" He faltered, hoping the dwarf would follow his train of thought.

Sardonically, Varric replied with a gruff, "I guess you don't know my relationship with the Carta." But the advisors were getting at something, and he wasn't sure he liked where this line of questioning was headed.

"And yet somehow they knew of your relationship with Cassandra," Leliana pressed, urging him to think hard about this. "How is that possible? Even _we_ were in the dark about the two of you until recently."

Varric was speechless. Unaware of the reason why, his heart began to race, an awful dread creeping toward him from the back of his mind. Now that they mentioned it, he couldn't conceive of a plausible way they could have come across that information. Even if someone _had_ caught him speaking intimately with Cassandra back there, nobody in that damned thaig was left breathing to tell the tale of what they had heard. But they had figured it out somehow, and nothing was making much sense to him anymore.

Finding his voice, he looked to Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine all in turn. "Do you know something I don't?"

The Commander and the Spymaster glanced over to Josephine then, both nodding as if signalling that it was time to show their hand. Clearing her throat, Josephine fiddled with her quill while she searched for a diplomatic way to divulge this information. "…Madame Vivienne was kind enough to request information regarding these attackers, and the resources of the Imperial Palace uncovered something which might make more sense to you than it does to us."

What in the blazes did Orlais have to do with anything? Pushing that question aside, he instead asked another that would force her to arrive at her point faster, though he was unsure whether he wanted to hear anything further. "…What kind of intel are we talking about?"

"The assassins who were sent to kill Lady Cassandra were from an Orlesian branch of the Carta crime syndicate," Spymaster Leliana revealed, her tone now suspiciously more soothing, hands clasping at her back. "They appear to have received their intelligence from a Smith Caste family living and working in Val Royeaux."

Varric's heart nearly stopped, and he fought to take another breath. "…What?"

Cullen dropped his gaze and shuffled forward a few steps, lowering his voice as he took in the dwarf's pale complexion. "We believe that someone knew the Carta was planning to attack you, and passed information to them with the intention of having their assassins target Cassandra to send you a message… We just don't know exactly what that message could have been."

His blood ran cold, a wash of denial flooding his veins. "…That's not possible," Varric shook his head, his copper eyes rounding as his mind jumped to the only possible conclusion, however sick it may have been. "She… _No_ ," the dwarf whispered, "she could never be capable of shit like this, no matter how pissed off she was!"

"'She'?" The Ambassador straightened, trading looks of alarm with her fellow advisors.

Varric reeled. The air felt heavy and oppressive around him. He turned to the left and walked over to a tall window, vainly pressing his hands against the glass pane as if to shove it open so he could breathe.

Someone _had_ been left alive in the thaig that day.

"…Bianca."

"…The woman who gave us the tip about Valammar in the first place?" Cullen asked in confusion, his voice approaching from behind. He could hear them all coming toward him now, closing in on him. And he felt trapped, forced to face the horror of what they had suggested.

"She wouldn't do this to me," Varric seethed, shoving the horrid idea far from his mind in anger. "Her _father_ is the one who usually sends the assassins when I get too close to her! She would _never –_ "

"Does she know of your romantic involvement with Cassandra?" Leliana questioned him dangerously, her brows lowered in accusation.

He threw his arms wide, letting his breath out in a disbelieving sigh as he backed away from them. "I _had_ to tell her! She pretty much figured it out for herself, so _of course_ I had to break things off! I thought she took it pretty well, considering!"

"…So this, too, was an act of revenge?" Josephine theorised calmly. "Of jealousy, perhaps?"

What hadn't started off as an interrogation sure as hell felt like one now. He pointed a finger of warning up at them, determined to set them straight. "Bianca may be a _lot_ of things, but she's _not_ _capable_ of that kind of underhanded shit!"

"Then… how else could the Carta have made the connection without her input?" Cullen wondered, seeming for a moment to doubt their conclusions.

"I don't know," Varric shook his head, shoulders slumping when he realised no other piece fit the puzzle quite like she did. "…But I know it's bullshit."

Pursing her lips in a moment of sympathy, Nightingale tilted her head to the right and looked at him sombrely. "Put it together, Varric," she urged him quietly. "Is it really so unlikely that a spurned lover might wish harm, even _death_ on the new woman in her man's life?"

His guts clenched, tying themselves into intricate knots. It all made perfect sense. Prefect, awful sense. The Carta agent claiming to have a source during his damned monologue. The resentful attitude Bianca had held toward the Seeker. The fact that he was regularly accosted by assassins whenever he returned from a rendezvous with his erstwhile lover. Had Valammar even had anything to do with Cassandra's attack in the first place, or had it been a red herring she'd ordered them to play up in the hopes of throwing him off her scent…?

"Regardless of where they came by this information," Josephine's words brought him out of his downward spiral, "the assassination attempt was indeed severe enough to prove that your romantic connection to the Lady Seeker is a clear threat to her life."

At last, Varric's guilt and shame poured out in a well of heated emotion. "You think I don't know that?! I've been beating myself up every single day since they made her drink that awful shit! What happened to her was my fault!" He reeled, realising completely in the moment that there was no one at all to blame for this but himself. "Shit, everything's my fault…!"

Leliana's demeanour steeled. "Then you know what we must ask of you next."

He paused, the tears standing out in his eyes as all went still. Staring intimidatingly at her, he glared with an intensity he hadn't believed himself capable of delivering. Varric stepped toward her, knowing full well what she was getting at, this time. " _No_ ," he spat coldly, his fists clenching at his sides. "You can't force me to –"

"You're right. We cannot force you," Cullen interrupted, laying a hand on his shoulder as much to hold him back as to lend his support in his time of need. "We only ask that you understand the risk you pose to her and act accordingly…"

Josephine lowered her arms to her sides, her green eyes drawing his gaze. She appeared guilt-ridden at having to agree with the war council on this, but tried to ease him nonetheless. "Your feelings for her must be strong for you to have taken the actions necessary to save her. She survives still because of what you have done for her. No one here is discounting your role in that, Varric… But you must admit that if this continues, there is a terribly real possibility that this may happen again…"

"And if it does," Leliana added forebodingly, trading extremely concerned glances with the Ambassador, "she may not be so lucky next time."

The very notion they were presenting was anguishing to consider. After everything they had been through, to have the people he considered friends trying to rip the Seeker from his arms felt like the rawest of all betrayals.

"No, you don't get it," he argued, his face growing red and fighting a tremble in his lower lip. "You think I can just walk _away_ from her?! I'm _not_ _leaving_ Cassandra…! _I love her!_ "

Cullen's soft voice was the only one that dared break the long moment of silence his declaration had caused.

"Varric…If you truly do love her, then –"

"Don't you _dare_ spout off that awful cliché, Curly." The dwarf pivoted on the spot, ignoring the sudden pang in his ankle, and headed for the exit as fast as his short legs could carry him. "With all due respect," he shouted back at the three, turning to watch their stunned faces as he departed, "screw you people. You can stuff your shitty advisements up your collective asses. Meeting adjourned."

But even as he slammed the massive doors in his wake and stormed back down the hallway toward his lover's quarters, there was nothing Varric could do to shake the horrible sensation that they were right…

**~oOo~**

They had been gone for a long time. Too long.

Blackwall leaned back in the wooden chair, one hand resting on a thigh while the other had been lent to the Lady Seeker when she'd turned on the bed in a blind search for Varric. She had clasped his proffered arm with both hands, hugging it to her breast in such a way that the blush had taken a full five minutes to recede back beneath his jet-black beard. Still, there was no use standing on ceremony or being scandalised when she only believed it was her man she held so desperately through her sickness. He could only hope that his friend would come back soon and resume his rightful place in her bed, allowing him to take back the arm and leave them to their intimacy.

He'd stared morosely into the flames for ages, absently wondering if he should do something about the loose legs supporting the frame of her chair, when the door had opened slowly. Raising his eyes to the dark corner of the room, Blackwall waited for his eyes to adjust before making out the familiar shape of the merchant prince… But something in the way he held himself had altered drastically.

Varric left the door wide open, standing just on the precipice of a painful decision. The warrior's eyes grew wide as he registered the expression on the man's lightly bearded face, one of utter and complete hopelessness. He knew that look well, and he feared what his friend was possibly planning on doing because of it. Whatever the dwarf had discovered in the War Room hadn't put his mind at rest.

Cassandra stirred beside him, the frosty air hitting them like a wave across the shore. Wincing, she opened her amber eyes and released Blackwall's arm, turning to see what was transpiring at the door to her room.

"…Varric?" Her voice croaked, hoarse from sleep and a soreness that hadn't healed. "…Come," she beckoned, laying a frail hand on the pillow beside her. "I need you here with me…"

He forced himself to step forward, the door behind him left ajar. For the longest time he simply stared at her, the depth of his heartbreak playing out before them in a desolate release of dammed emotions. Standing at the foot of her bed, a vast emptiness filled him to his core, and Blackwall witnessed in aching dismay as Varric slowly shook his head.

"Varric, what is it…? Why are you looking at me that way…?"

He covered his mouth with a steady hand, and if one looked hard enough, the hairs on his chest thumped to the beat of his racing heart. Seconds crawled agonisingly by, the dwarf forcing himself to take a deep, deliberate breath.

"…I never meant for this to happen to you…" He took a step back, his eyes on the floor as he moved toward the door. "I'm so sorry, Seeker… I'll always lo –" He cut off his words forcefully before they could be uttered ever again, the pain in his throat contagious and spreading rapidly.

Blackwall swallowed hard, unwilling to believe his friend was actually going through with what he feared he was. "Varric, don't do this. Think it through first," he heard himself beg. But his pleas fell on deaf ears.

Ever so slowly, Cassandra lowered herself back down to her pillow, eyes blank and unreadable as a solitary tear escaped the walls of the stronghold around her spirit. Pulling the blanket around herself, she curled and closed her eyes, praying that her lover's rejection was just another one of her many cruel hallucinations.

"…I can't… I'm sorry," Varric managed to say at last, the weight of his shattered soul carrying on his last sweet words to her. "…Goodbye, baby…"

And after a trembling breath, he choked off a sob and stumbled through the door, closing it with excruciating finality behind him.


	25. Divine Intervention

Varric once said that people needed pain sometimes, that it was all a part of being alive and learning to be real, but now the pain had stopped Varric from living. Old Varric used to trade stories of happy times and happy people when he was saddest, and it always made him feel a bit better. But new Varric kept his stories to himself, silent and staring into the stillness… _Lamenting, languishing, listless and lonely inside, on the rising tide of a lurching sea of broken loves long lost…_

Part of him had drowned along with Cassandra, the light in him that liked laughing and sneaking smiles from strangers, and though she was brought back, his spark was put out by the whispering red waters. He tried to fill the hole left behind with different things – mostly drinks made of fire that burned away mind and memory, even when memories were what made the man what he was: carefree, caring, confident… He didn't need anyone to make him forget; he was helping himself do just that, already.

Cole floated through halls, walked through walls, listening lucidly to the longings behind each door. It was hard for him to decide who to help first, who needed it most. The sadness was a sickness spreading through Skyhold. Walls weeping, gates grieving, people pretending the pain didn't paralyse them in place, but it did. It did, and he needed to ease it somehow, but nobody wanted to forget. Everyone wanted to remember, no matter how much it meant to mar them. And not being free to soothe the sad songs in their souls was something he didn't understand, or like.

The Nightingale's room was cold, but she didn't mind it, heart hardened to help heal the hurts behind her. She told herself she'd made things right, but all her broken bits were put back in the wrong places, jagged edges pointed outward, and she turned from the crumbling cracks she'd made in herself and others. _Cutting off the nose to spite the face_ …

Cullen's heart was soft, still, strong, not separated from work or worries. Like Cole, he heard the hurt, had felt it before, and he wanted to heal it, but didn't know how. His broken pieces were put together slow and steady, making him better than before, burdens easier to bear. He had wisdom, but was afraid to share it. People always do what they feel is best for them; no answer was the same for everyone. And maybe he was right, but at least he was willing to be wrong _…_

Josephine didn't hide her pieces away, since none of them were scarred or scratched, like the others. He heard no hurts in her, save one: regret. She was used to pulling people with gentle prodding and poking. Now, she wondered whether throwing the battle to win the war was wise, or if too much had been surrendered to recover what was lost. Cassandra was the feet they all stood upon not to fall… But what if Varric was the ground – steady, solid, sure – and they'd pulled it out from under her before she could fly…? _A road to ruin, fraught with good intentions…_

Cole comforted what he could, listening to that which was not said, and after that they all slept easier, not tossing or turning in the twilight hours. He wandered again, compassion compelling his conscience to Cassandra, who was harder to hear and heal. It was a hurt different from most others, louder and less willing to let loose. Confusion, disillusioned, cuts and bruises subtle and unseen by healers too distracted by what was on the surface, the bandage over her spirit ripped from a gaping wound. He hadn't said why, but excuses didn't matter to her, the fact that he'd said goodbye by itself a betrayal of every faith she'd placed in him. A love worth lying for, denying for, trying for… or so she'd believed once. Cole wanted to fix it, but she was sealed off by a wall so thick, no invader could topple. Her defences were raised against any incursion, however well-meaning he may have been. Thumbing the amulet around his neck, he stared at the Seeker's sun, knowing they both wore them to keep them in this world, holding threats at bay that wished to control them. He sincerely hoped it would be enough… For Cassandra and himself…

His spirit was drawn once again to his friend, down beneath the keep in an expansive, empty cellar. He sat against the wall, legs sprawled out, and since Cole had last visited, his crossbow had been dismantled, components strewn in a semi-circle around him. Gears, springs, trigger, stock, legs, bayonet, bolts… He had wanted the destruction this thing, named for a face that had haunted his heart for the shadows of many wasted years. They'd made it as one, and ever since, it had stayed that way. _Bianca, brilliant and beautiful, beguiles and betrays, breaks bonds not benefitting her, betting he is brittle and bends to her will while burning bridges she didn't build brick by brick._

But Varric couldn't take a hammer to his baby, which was just what his crossbow was to him. They'd honed it by hand, tinkered and toiled until their baby was born… And like any child of severed parents, it didn't deserve to be destroyed by divorce, innocent to their struggles and sadness. He still loved it, yet had decided in his anguish to build her again in his image, and although it would always bear the name of its mother, it was named for who she once was… Not who she had become.

Cole sat with Varric in his stupor, watching as he whittled and worked, putting pieces into place, healing his own wounds and masking the scars put upon him by Bianca. _This one will be better,_ the spirit heard him think. _She'll be mine again, if I can fix her… Just put her back together, and she'll forgive me for tearing her apart…_

Varric wasn't thinking about his crossbow, Cole knew, and his spirit ached with the sheer desire to help. Every now and again, the man stopped and searched, seeking a screw or a spring he couldn't see through lack of sobriety. _There,_ Cole would direct him silently, hoping to play his part in the process, even if he went unnoticed.

One by one, piece by piece, hour by hour, Bianca was brought back before their eyes. The song in Varric's heart was a victory ballad, each verse a step along his journey with the crossbow, breathing new life into his fragile soul. He held the gleaming stock as he admired her, polishing her like a proud parent, making her his, now and forever.

It was time to test his newfound temerity. His confidence renewed, Varric now looked to the future and, fresh from the fight, Cole watched as he went to wake his friends to join him in breaking in the new Bianca…

**~oOo~**

_I'll try to write you happier endings from now on, Seeker… It's the least you deserve, especially from me…_

_In all honesty, Varric… so long as you're the one writing them, I don't mind how they end… Or how long they last…_

Cassandra Pentaghast never would have thought she'd lament her memory's eventual return. Now that it played seemingly on an endless loop, picking apart every statement he'd made to her in the dark, and she had nothing else with which to distract herself, no chores or duties, missions or reports, all she could do was lay in her bed and remember. Her nights were no better, either spending her evenings submitted to the fruitless prodding of mages or haunted endlessly in the Fade. If she had to choose between the dreams or the nightmares, she much preferred the latter, since the former mostly envisioned past tender moments stolen with him, and those times were still too painful to recall so vividly to mind.

She stroked the grey fur of her only bed companion for several days, the comfort of Mouse's presence at her side now something to wholly rely on. The cat came and went as she pleased, though she always seemed to return just as Cassandra was coming around, and she found herself wishing at times that she could follow her out the door, curious to discover what Mouse did when she was out prowling the grounds. But no one had deemed her fit thus far, and the stifling confines of her quarters had a terrible effect on her outlook.

She'd hardly had the heart to look in the mirror anymore, the deep red capillaries easily discernible beneath her paling skin. How she now looked, like someone her Uncle would gleefully mummify for a bereft noble house, sent shivers down her spine whenever she gazed upon her morbid reflection. And another surge raced through her blood, adrenaline and anger poisoning her veins.

Gereon Alexius had occupied the chair at her bedside since she awoke that morning, and hours had passed in relative silence as she did nothing more than stare at the gaping holes in her ceiling, pet the sleeping cat, or drift off from time to time between rushes. He caught the quickening of her breath and pressed two fingers to her wrist to monitor the surge, and since he had done this every morning without fail, Cassandra had grown oddly accustomed to his withered face in her room. The Tevinter magister-turned-agent, assigned to the research wing in the mages' tower, often gazed at her with the same anxiety he'd once felt when looking upon his only son, Felix, whom died of the Blight sickness shortly after their arrival at Skyhold. The grim comparison of their terminal conditions did nothing to quell her darkest fears, and she closed her weary eyes, striving for calm in her heated blood.

There was a knock or two at her door before Alexius summoned the visitor inside, and after a moment, the handle turned to reveal the elf, whom closed the door silently behind himself and made his way to the magister's side, hands clasped behind his back.

Solas had taken to checking up on her whenever Alexius was there to monitor her vitals. The mages held an odd respect for one another that presumably only magic and their mutual love for the study of the arcane could transcend. Still, as much as she appreciated her associates' concerns moving them to drop by from time to time, the Seeker thoroughly disliked being viewed in her current state, weakened and vulnerable as she was in her bed. _My deathbed,_ she thought bitterly, keeping her strange eyes trained on the dilapidated ceiling and refusing to acknowledge their presence. Her defiant, distant attitude to these visitations was normal, and even expected under the circumstances, and none took offence to her willfully ignoring them.

"How is she faring this morning, Magister Alexius?" Solas posed the question quietly, the cadence of his voice low and soothing.

The Tevinter held up a finger a moment longer as he counted the slowing beat of her pulse, and after a long pause, released her wrist and sat upright. "The Lady Seeker's cognitive abilities are what I would safely call healthy. Her lungs are clear and strong, though her temperature remains unusually high… but despite this, she is stable. I do not anticipate her fever clearing until the red lyrium is purged from her. The immune system sees it as an infection, and is attempting to boil it out, but," he shook his head slowly, his expression careworn as he finished, "that will not happen by any known means, Master Solas. Lyrium consumed by mages and templars dissipates in the systems after a time, as you know, but there are no long-term studies performed on red lyrium, or its hosts. Truly, from what I have observed from my time serving the Elder One, it is a malignant cancer spreading through the body, only growing stronger as time passes."

Her lips pursed in aggravation. "I have yet to lose the function of my ears," she mumbled to them, her hand stilled over Mouse's soft fur.

There was a brief pause as the men realised the error of their terrible bedside manner. "Forgive me, Lady Seeker," Alexius begged her pardon. "For what it is worth, your other ailments are asymptomatic at this stage, which shows promise of a full recovery… But if I may ask," he treaded the topic carefully, "your rest is fraught with dreams of this… _dweomer_. Would you like us to summon him to your quarters so you might speak with him?"

The rage pulsed through her blood again, overwhelmed with both outrage and humiliation. Without a second thought, she sat up in bed and tossed her legs over the side, surprising the mages with her unexpected movement. " _No_ ," she bit forcefully. "I do not wish to see him again." Then she looked away, troubled by her own sensitivity on the topic of Varric.

She hadn't set eyes on him since he had said goodbye from her doorway, leaving her to recover entirely on her own. Much of her wanted to view this as pure betrayal by him, but there was no denying the pain in his eyes as he'd walked out, and no one had come to explain why he had decided to draw the relationship to a close. One way or another, it should have been obvious that he would break her heart. Varric had promised to stay by her side through it all, but he was not known for keeping his word. Especially with her.

"If she is indeed well-mended," Solas suggested with a cautious nod, "then I would say what's best for her now is to resume a few normal duties. A light workload at first, and when this proves to have positive benefits, more can be steadily added later." His narrow blue eyes smiled sadly toward her. "Would you say you feel rested enough to return to the outside world, Cassandra?"

The thought of being useful again brightened her mood somewhat. "If anything, I would be glad to get out of this blighted bed for once," she commented, quickly shooting a glance toward Alexius and biting her lip at the turn of phrase she had uttered in his company. He winced subtly, but otherwise betrayed no other outward signs of grief, and she let it fall away, relieved to go on pretending it had never happened.

"A bit of fresh air would do wonders, I believe," the magister agreed. "Don't strain yourself, and return to your quarters early. Rest is still required to make a full recovery." He rose to his feet and gathered his things into a tote bag. "I shall report to the Commander so he is made aware of the current situation. _Vitae benefaria,_ " he wished her well, leaving the two companions for his studio in the mages' tower.

As the door closed in Alexius' wake, Solas sighed and sat himself down comfortably in the chair across from her. "A word, Cassandra," the apostate requested solemnly.

Though she was keen to dismiss him and dress for the coming day, Cassandra hesitated as he maintained eye contact, unnerved by his disconcerting stare. "What is it, Solas? Be quick; I would like to leave this place as soon as possible."

"I can appreciate your eagerness," he sympathised, "but this is no small matter." Glancing at her chest, he caught her affronted glare and apparently thought nothing of it. "The faith you carry has healed you beyond what magic alone could achieve. Your health was hard-won, Cassandra, worthy of pride. I commend your strength against the odds you were dealt in the Fallow Mire. However, there is one detail I do not wish you to overlook," he clarified, casting his eyes back down to her chest.

She followed his gaze to the pendant over her bed clothes, now understanding his earlier glance. "The Holy Symbol of Andraste you adorn is not just a symbol of your faith, but a sustainer of your existence. So long as you wear this pendant, it will prevent catastrophe from occurring. And you _must_ wear it always," he stressed to her.

The Seeker thumbed the surface of the gleaming golden sun anxiously, her brows drawing together in a frown. "How do you know this?"

The elf took a slow breath, perhaps attempting to explain in a way she could comprehend, not being a mage herself. "…All forms of magic sing. Flame, spirit, ice, lightning; the form is a consequence of the song, and not the other way around. Some are powerful movements, others harmonic and gentle, unique from one another. You have been taught to suppress them, but to those whom study the art of magic, they are embraced. In truth, the pendant in your possession would be more accurately labelled an amulet, and the enchantments embedded within will protect you from conceivably death itself. Its song is an ancient one, long unheard in the modern era, but faint remnants can still be traced through the Fade… which is how I was able to locate it."

Considering the manner in which the amulet had come to be in her possession in the first place, she had hoped to rid herself of it at her earliest opportunity. In light of this new information, though, it seemed as if she was tied to it indefinitely, destined to remind her of that damned dwarf every day of her life…

She shook her head, not understanding why, given all he had divulged, the elf still appeared unsettled. "So if I do not remove my necklace," she thought aloud, "no harm will come to me."

"Unfortunately, we know that is not the case," Solas attempted to exchange his grave expression with a stoic one in its place. "You suffered greatly, despite wearing it the day you were accosted," he reminded her gently. "You survived largely due to our intervention, but in no small part due to the amulet's properties. I have theorised that this Holy Symbol of your Prophet will sustain life itself, but only so far as to prevent you from…"

"From crossing the Veil and the Fade," Cassandra finished for him before he could think of a more delicate way to put it. "From walking to the Maker's Right Hand."

Solas acquiesced to the allegorical beliefs in the afterlife of her faith. "As you would say, yes. So long as it remains with you, you will not succumb to death's grip… In time, though, the poisonous nature of the red lyrium, I highly suspect, will leave you comatose or vegetative, the amulet only able to accomplish the bare minimum of tethering your spirit to your physical form."

The silence after his theory was laid out was oppressive, patches of her body going cold at the very picture he painted for her as vividly as any mural adorning the walls of his study. "If it should ever come to that, Solas," she said, steel in her voice as she raised her chilling eyes to him, "and there is no hope of recovery… then I would have the amulet removed so that I may be allowed to join the Maker."

To say he was surprised by her request to die with dignity was an overstatement. Instead, his eyes flashed in recognition, and it was as though, from everything he understood about her, he knew she would rather pass away in peace than be artificially kept alive, perpetually trapped in her own mortal coil.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing slowly on his elongated throat. "If that is your desire," he closed his eyes in a sombre nod, rising from the chair, "then rest assured that I will see it honoured… When you have time this afternoon, please write down your wishes so that the others have proof, should such tragedy befall you. Sign and date it, then deliver it to me in the rotunda. I will secure it for you until it becomes apparent that it must be shared."

"Thank you, Solas," she sighed with a heavy heart, the apostate quietly leaving her side. As he headed for the exit, Mouse rose from her quiet dozing on the bed and glided her furry body past the Seeker's arm in farewell, jumping down to follow the elf out.

"Ah. Come, _Banal'ras_ ," he smiled sadly, holding it open as the little grey cat bounded through. Looking back to the Seeker, he added as a parting afterthought, "Hold fast to your faith, and do not despair, Cassandra. A cure _will_ be found."

At that, he nodded in grave finality and closed the door.

Yet even as the strange elf had tried to reassure her troubled mind, the Seeker couldn't help but doubt his outward conviction.

**~oOo~**

" _Ha!_ Saw that! Take a shot, Tevinter!" Sera lifted a mocking finger of accusation toward the altus.

" _What?!_ But that was _perfect!_ " Dorian argued, already half in the bag as Blackwall brought the shot glass over from the table, its black contents spilling over the sides and onto the man's gloved fingers. "If I take one, then Bull has to take one! He fumbled just as much as I did – if not more!"

Varric gave him a wide, inebriated smile. "Drink up, Sparkler; you earned it."

His brow knitting in revulsion, Dorian reluctantly took the glass from the warrior's hand and lifted it in spiteful salute to his friends. "To this seedy den of liars and thieves," he toasted them, sipping the alcohol like a professional wino.

" _Swallow it_ ," Bull ordered, hushing everyone until they saw the muscles of the mage's throat work it all down.

Dorian shot the qunari a knowing glance, raising a brow in warning. Then he proceeded to double over, gagging on the horrific aftertaste. " _Eugh!_ Maker's _Breath_ , you southerners would drink the sweat off a wyvern's _back_ if you thought it could get you piss drunk!"

"Tried that," Blackwall laughed, twirling his sword by the hilt. "Turns out they don't actually sweat."

Varric clapped and rubbed his hands together, walking back over to his mark. "From the top! One more time, and then we make this interesting."

Still shuddering, Dorian made his way to the centre of the empty cellar, turning to face the long dividing wall, staff at the ready. Head swimming, Varric stood at his side, the mage reaching out a hand to steady him as he shifted a gleaming Bianca to his shoulder. Bull and Sera made their way to the far side of the room, while Blackwall remained at his place next to the table, shield held out as he prepared to charge.

"Ready," Varric rasped.

"Steady," Dorian said, flames burning in his palm.

" _Go,_ " Bull and Sera cried in unison.

At that, the game was on.

Blackwall burst into a sprint, blocking with his shield as human and dwarf shot bolts and fireballs at the man. As soon as he passed them unscathed, the mage raised a massive wall of fire stretching to the wall before them. Meanwhile, Sera climbed Bull to beat her last time, leaning over his horns and shooting an arrow at Blackwall precisely as he slid on the floor between Bull's spread legs, his shield angled perfectly to allow the arrow to ricochet off the steel and straight up toward them. Bull caught the arrow in mid-air and tossed it back up to the elf straddling his shoulders, and now it was Varric's turn to run to the wall, the fire raging at his left flank. He set his boot on the stone wall and nimbly shifted his forward momentum to run at full speed in a vertical line. Simultaneously, Bull held Sera out as though she were a sword, pointing her directly ahead as she aimed and fired her bow upside-down. The arrow passed through the fire, its tail alight as it flew in the air, and Varric twirled in a backflip as he pushed off against the wall, the arrow passing directly through the middle of the circle he'd created with his body. When he landed on his feet, he turned Bianca instantly and shot the arrow before it could strike the wall, sending splinters exploding in all directions, and Dorian set all of them ablaze, the shrapnel disintegrating before it could land on the stone floor.

"'Eeyyy!" Sera cheered, throwing her hands up in triumph. " _Nailed_ it!"

"Flawless, that time," Blackwall let out a hearty laugh, slapping Bull's shoulder companionably.

Varric walked over to the table and picked up the half-empty bottle. "Everybody, take a shot!"

Dorian instantly protested. "Varric, I was under the impression that the _loser_ was forced to drink! Now we _all_ have to if we do this right? What are the rules to this little game of yours?"

"Easy," he smiled, knocking the glass back and swallowing the harsh spirit, "to get wasted. That's the point of _every_ drinking game, Sparkler."

"Pour me a double," Bull called, making his way to the other side of the room.

"Ooh, me next!" Sera rushed to the table, anxious for another.

As everyone took turns throwing one back and egging each other on, Varric's eye was caught by the entrance of his curious, furry companion. Mouse casually walked over to the table leg and crouched before leaping to the surface, sidling up to Varric and mewling for his undivided attention. Smiling drunkenly to himself, he scratched behind her ears and beneath her chin, feeling the vibration of her purr on his calloused fingers.

"So, what now?" Blackwall wondered, taking a moment to balance the pommel of his longsword on his palm. "How should we up the ante?"

Varric smiled and stepped toward Bull, setting Bianca in his waiting arms. "Now, we all swap places," he grinned mischievously. "Loser has to take _three_ shots."

Their eyes rounded at his challenge, casting wary glances between themselves. After a moment, Dorian raised his hand like a schoolboy at the back of class. "Er, Varric…?"

The dwarf smacked his forehead with a palm as realisation dawned on him. " _Oh, right!_ " Snapping his fingers in an effort to come up with a plan for the mage, he took Dorian by the arm and placed him just a meter to the right, directly in the arrow's trajectory. "Okay – stop the arrow before it lodges in your face."

Groaning with trepidation, the altus begrudgingly obliged, his shoulders set with a marked nervousness. As he worried silently to himself, the others exchanged weapons and familiarised themselves in preparation for the improvised stunt.

Bull fidgeted with Bianca, peering down her barrel, the danger end pointed straight at his face. "Hey, how does this thing –"

"Don't do that!" Varric pulled his crossbow down by grabbing one of her steel legs. "You wanna lose your _other_ eye?! _There_ ," he indicated her bronze trigger, "just point and shoot. Couldn't be simpler, Tiny. Alright, places, everybody!"

Now holding the shield, Sera stood beside Dorian as Bull made his way to Varric's starting point, the dwarf and the bearded warrior lightly jogging to the far end. "Ready!" Sera nodded.

"Alright, _hit it,_ " Varric gave the go.

And, as should have been anticipated by all, chaos ensued.

Sera took off in a full sprint, holding Blackwall's shield to her left to block the bolts Bull fired at her. However, he missed every shot, his depth perception preventing him from keeping up with the blur racing past him. Forgetting that she couldn't see him from her angle, Dorian sent a single fireball from his staff careening toward Sera's back.

" _Fasta vass_ ," he cried out in dismay.

As Blackwall hoisted himself unsteadily onto Varric's shoulders, Sera dropped and slid on the ground, attempting to squeeze herself between the spread of the dwarf's short legs, but the shield wasn't narrow enough to follow her, painfully (yet thankfully) lodging in such a way that the fireball was repelled and sent in a blaze back toward the mage. In a mild panic, Dorian threw up his firewall, the previous spell dissipating in the high flames before it could reach him to singe his perfectly groomed hair.

Varric groaned in discomfort, both from the weight of the human warrior and the shield roughing up areas it was never designed to gently caress, and since Blackwall had missed his chance to fire an arrow at the shield, he instead tried to release one straight through the fire. "Ah, damn it," he swore, dropping the arrow to the ground. Sera handed him another one hurriedly, already struggling to remain upright through hysterical giggles, and he took it carefully, fiddling with the strange mechanics of the whole endeavour.

Once he'd figured it out, Bull charged toward the wall, ready to do his flip. Suddenly unsure of whether he could manage with the low ceiling, they all cautioned the qunari to hold off, but it was too late. The arrow burst through the flames just as he'd put his foot to the wall –

And the stone bricks gave way, Bull disappearing in a thick cloud of demolished masonry straight on through to the other side.

Dorian ducked in time for the arrowhead to crash against the back wall, his eyes wide as he stared at the massive hole. Blackwall boomed with thunderous mirth, losing his balance and falling to the floor in a graceless heap while Varric prudently dislodged the shield from his sore nether regions.

"Flippin' shit," Sera gasped, everyone rising to their feet and walking carefully toward the destruction. "We're in for it now."

Grunting, Bull squeezed himself back through the hole in the wall, covered in a thick layer of cement that resembled unrefined grain flour. "For fuck's sake," he grumbled, scratching behind a horn and staring frankly at the damage. "Better not have been a load-bearing wall."

Blackwall slapped his knee in a low chuckle, tears of hilarity streaming from his eyes. "Can you imagine," he struggled to paint the scene through long bursts of laughter, "the Inquisitor up there... sitting on her judgement throne like nothing's amiss… and then _boom! Right_ there, staring at us like we're an invading fucking army!" He and Sera promptly collapsed in a heap, the alcohol fuelling their hiccups and chuckles.

"Andraste's eyes," Dorian marvelled momentarily, brushing the debris from Bull's shoulders as he let out a cough from the fine dust cloud he'd created. "Well, Varric? How many shots is _that_ worth?"

"The whole damned bottle, by the looks of it," he shook his head, unable to wipe the smirk from his face. His eyes shifting toward the table, he was more than happy to go first.

But he stopped dead. " _Mouse…!_ "

The cat looked up at him with wide green eyes, her head hunching to her shoulders and staring intensely at his pointed finger. Her grey paw slowly nudged the shot glass, eyeing the dwarf with malicious intent, daring him to make her day.

"Don't even _think_ about it," he growled at his pet with all the authority he could muster. An authority she was apparently prepared to rebel against, for she then pushed the glass over the side of the table, watching with aloofness as it shattered against the stone floor.

Then her feline eyes shifted to the open bottle of rancid liquor.

"No, no, _no_ ," he and his companions begged her, waving their hands in a desperate attempt to get Mouse to move away. She raised her head in triumph, knowing damn well she had them all at her mercy. That cat was clearly enjoying her newfound power over these lumbering buffoons.

Anders would have been proud of his kitten as she pawed their bottle over the edge. As it crashed to the floor, the black spirit pooling in broken bits of glass while his friends wailed and gnashed their teeth, Varric couldn't help but see a glimmer of his old associate in her defiant, satisfied eyes.

"Well, shit," the dwarf chuckled to himself at the memory. "Blondie used to do that back at The Hanged Man if he thought I'd had too much to drink."

The smile slowly evaporated from his lips, replaced only with the depths of his once-forgotten grief. He'd spent every waking moment drinking himself into oblivion, doing everything he could to keep the shadow of his guilt and remorse at bay, and now that times with old friends long gone had resurfaced, other hurts followed close behind.

Her work here now done, Mouse licked her paw in casual victory before jumping down from her perch, quietly leaving the same way she came to continue her exploration of the keep.

With his friends distracted by idle banter and drunken levity, Varric stealthily retrieved a dust-ridden and slightly damaged Bianca from the floor. Silently following his small charge out of the sub-chambers of Skyhold, he was unaware that Blackwall watched him leave for the courtyard, the warrior hoping that Varric was finally off to do the right thing.

**~oOo~**

The brisk air on her pale, heated face was blessedly refreshing as Cassandra stepped out of the armoury and into the light, the familiar sounds of the upper courtyard filling her once-dulled senses. She breathed the crispness deeply, pressing herself against the chilled door frame for a moment before closing it and walking sword-in-hand to her personal training area.

The presence of the Seeker in full armour garnered no small amount of open-mouthed stares, many of the soldiers in the yard turning to see this miraculous sight for themselves. Her heightened senses caught whispers assumed to be too soft to overhear, and she shut her eyes tightly, roundly ignoring them as the heat radiated in her blood. She understood the singing Solas spoke of all too well, but what she heard was not soothing or gentle, though it would have been a welcome change. It was menacing, and whenever she felt the smallest hint of displeasure, her heart sped up within her, flooding her with what she could only assume was dread or anxiety. It was a sickening feeling, and she did what she could to beat it back down.

She stopped before the faceless straw dummy, attempting to tighten her grip on the hilt of her longsword. Her fingers, so weakened and out of practice, refused to cooperate. Gritting her teeth, she focused and took another deep breath, reaching for the stamina she had built up over the decades of her life… but found only fire in its place.

Dark powers residing within called out, yearning to be tapped and wielded like any other weapon in her arsenal. She shook her head forcefully and made a defensive stance, spreading her feet and bending at the knees, shield raised to her eyes. Again, she heard the otherworldly voices, sinister whispers in her ear tempting her with the restoration of all she had lost to her illnesses and more…

It was a tantalising offer. The more she considered letting go, the more it seemed like a sound experiment. Solas had only warned her never to remove the amulet; he'd said nothing in the way of what to do about the lyrium itself, and if she was being kept alive by Varric's gift, then using the curse to her advantage did not appear to pose that great a risk. In hindsight, she should have known better than to trust her own mind to weigh her options clearly…

Closing her eyes, she delved deep and channelled the fiery energy. The terrible song grew louder, more insistent as she touched it, and her muscles seized on it greedily, desperate for anything to feed their lost strength. The pain increased along with it, but the more she relented to the sheer power, the more tolerable it became. She hadn't felt this alive in all her years.

Cassandra roared, her sword arm raised high, and she swung with all the force her new abilities granted her. Her blade made contact as she felt the splinters bounding off the surface of her shield, the deafening crush of the wooden target ringing through the courtyard.

She opened her eyes again, marvelling at the wake of her destruction as a chill ran up her spine. The dummy was barely recognisable on the ground, only a pile of battered wood and painted cloth at her feet. The ring of bloodlust in her ears shielded the fact that all had gone silent behind her, the training session brought to a dead halt as they observed her unnatural strength.

Her body moved to the quickening drum of her own breath, every lungful sweet and rewarding. Riled by a sudden hate, the source of which she couldn't place, she rushed forward in a red blur, repeating the deadly slash on the only remaining target and destroying it utterly in one fell swoop of her sword. Incensed that the fight had ended so quickly, she bashed the equipment into the earth at her feet, stabbing and stomping at will as she cried out in rage.

A hand gripped her by the arm to stop her, and she turned her ire on the newcomer, swinging dangerously over her shoulder. Her blade met with another, though the shock reverberated through the man as he stared wide-eyed at the Seeker.

"Lower your weapon, Cassandra," he demanded, keeping his voice down. The blood surged through her, ghostly whispers eager for her to strike, but the care in his tone made her pause.

It took every iota of willpower to uncurl her fist, the weapon dropping to the ground in a soft _plunk!_ at her feet. Her tunnel vision took time to clear, breath shallow as the world around her came back into focus. "Cullen," she breathed, shaking at the sudden emptiness in her bones. She'd never felt so frail so quickly, the broken connection to the red lyrium leaving her unnervingly feeble and hollow.

Cassandra saw the Commander sheathe his sword out of the corner of her sore eyes, and he turned to her then, laying his hands upon her shoulders to keep her from swaying. "Alexius informed me of your condition," he muttered, mercifully keeping her momentary lapse of control private. "It's good to see you up and about. Are you feeling all right?"

Wavering, the Seeker felt the blood drain from her head, and she raised a palm to her ear to steady herself in the midst of a dizzy spell. "I apologise," she mumbled, taking an unsure step away from him. His hands returned to his sides, but his stance remained at the ready. Trying to reassure him, she cleared her tender throat and said more convincingly, "I'm fine, I… I don't know what came over me."

A small worry line appeared between his fair brows. "Whatever it whispers to you," he told her firmly, "don't give in. It will tell you anything to take control, but it will only lead to madness, Cassandra." He laid his palm on the pommel of his sword and gripped it for support. "You refused to give up on me through the worst of my withdrawal; I'm not about to give up on you, now. You're stronger than this. We all believe in you."

She shook her head and let out a shuddering breath. "You succeeded in freeing yourself of your lyrium leash, Cullen." Looking up at him then, she saw him shiver at the foreboding physical alteration of her irises. "But this is not something I can simply overcome with time." Swallowing the lump in her throat, her voice quivered as she half-heartedly suggested, "Perhaps… I can learn to wield it to the Inquisition's advant–"

" _No_ ," he denied, fear in the air as he pushed all considerations of that horrible notion aside. "I can hardly believe you would suggest such a thing, and I refuse to entertain that strategy for a second. I know you want to make yourself useful, Cassandra, but the Inquisition cannot afford to lose you to this."

Reluctantly, she closed her eyes and nodded, willing her rational mind to take back control of her irrational impulses. He was right, of course, and were their positions reversed, she'd be saying much the same – and had, many times in the past when it came to his addiction. Though he was unfamiliar with the true gravity of what she faced, her body a literal battleground as the red lyrium schemed to gain a foothold, he was at least partly aware of the suffering she now felt.

The training exercises had resumed, and the Commander lifted his gaze to the sky, tracking the position of the sun. "…I'll need to leave for the War Room shortly. Will you be all right on your own?"

As she looked up to answer him, a familiar, stout figure appeared from around the corner of the lower stairs, reeling slightly as he noticed her as well. His mouth had dropped in amazement, clearly both shocked and elated to see her upright and awake. Swallowing hard, he hesitantly walked over and waited on the sidelines, glancing between her and Cullen as if keen for an opening to approach her to speak, or possibly explain his hurtful actions.

Cassandra's mouth dried up at sight of him, unable to bear the look upon his face for long. Maker, he appeared to be extremely drunk or sleep-deprived, or both, and whatever he wished to say to her, she wasn't prepared for any of it. And, if she was honest with herself, her heart just wasn't ready to withstand the sound of his voice, yet…

Her eyes hardened as she focused on Cullen as though she'd never seen the dwarf standing in the courtyard at all, ignoring him altogether. "I'll go with you," she insisted.

His brows lifted in surprise, gauging her seriousness. "Are you certain you're ready for that?"

Nodding, she put her best foot forward and neatly avoided looking in Varric's direction again, passing him without sparing a moment to slow her quick pace. "Positive," she uttered under her breath, careful not to acknowledge the dwarf turning to watch her go…

…Even as the tears faintly stung at her vision when she heard him whisper her name…

**~oOo~**

"It almost feels like history repeating itself," the Commander commented, his voice echoing off the high ceiling above as they walked through Josephine's office doors and into the grand hallway leading to the war room. "You probably didn't know; I led Varric here in just the same…" He bit his tongue, not turning back in his swift pace to look at her. "I-I'm sorry," he stuttered. "Let's leave it."

She could take the secrecy no more. Riled by sudden instinct, she moved to intercept him before he could reach the tall doors, eyeing him critically as he stood in the light pouring through the window, the Commander unable to hide his expression from her in shadow.

"Tell me why, Cullen."

He grew noticeably more uncomfortable, his mouth opening to reply, but no words escaped the trap in his throat. Clearing it, he winced and rubbed at the back of his neck to ease his tension.

"I know most of the council was either unaware or paid us no attention," Cassandra glared heatedly, "and if this topic of discussion brings you discomfort, I honestly couldn't give less of a shit."

That was not what he had expected her to say, judging by the way his voice pitched. "I beg your pardon?"

Pursing her lips, the Seeker closed her eyes and took a needed breath to ground herself. "Let me rephrase," she tried again, though the edge in her voice grew ever more frustrated. "Your embarrassment at your contribution toward ending my relationship is due to your own guilt, and is none of my concern."

He huffed out a rueful laugh. "Oh, good. I thought you were upset with me," he mumbled sarcastically.

She let the comment slide. Cullen had no idea how upset she truly was, and she was happy to offer any needed clarification. "One of the last things I said to Varric the night before the incident was, ' _I do not need you to make decisions on my behalf'._ That was over something as _minor_ as me getting enough sleep. Yet after everything he did in my time of need, one hour with you caused him to abandon me to fate. I deserve an answer."

Shifting nervously, he cast a glance back toward the other end of the long hallway. "I-I'm sure Varric wanted to talk to you back in the yard," he stammered. Apparently, Cullen had also seen the dwarf before they had begun climbing the stone steps. "Wouldn't you rather –"

"I am outraged," she admitted, interrupting him before he could suggest she leave to seek her answers elsewhere and effectively wriggle his way out of her interrogation, "but I would aim my wrath toward the correct individual. I will have all the information before confronting Varric, or I shall never do so." She took a step toward him and he retreated involuntarily in kind. "Who planted the idea in his thick head? I would never picture him doing something so drastic without manipulation at the hands of another – or severe levels of intoxication, for that matter."

"You know I'm not at liberty to discuss this," he dodged her yet again, eyeing the door behind her as though willing someone on the other side to open it and save him. "It's war council business."

She stiffened angrily. "Has the council declared war on _me?_ "

"What?!" He blurted, "No, that's ridiculous; of _course_ not!"

"Then since I _recruited_ you to do this job in the first place, when your actions affect _my_ life, it _becomes_ my business!"

"That point is perfectly valid!"

The Seeker hadn't expected the Commander to agree, and by his demeanour, neither had he. Cullen sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, trying to disguise the look of a defeated man, and failing miserably to do so. "…Look, Cassandra," he started again, letting his hand fall loosely to his side as he honestly admitted, "please understand: we wanted nothing more than to protect you. Our hearts were in the right place… But it wasn't my idea," he relented, his eyes meeting hers head-on. "I swear it."

Studying his features, Cassandra paused for a long moment before nodding, coming to the only conclusion that made any sense at all. "…Then I know who is truly to blame."

And with that, she stepped aside, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword as he nervously inched by and opened the door, peeking inside before holding it for her to walk through.

"Cullen," she heard Leliana's Orlesian accent greet him. Then, all the warmth in her tone fell away as her wide eyes took in Cassandra's presence. "…You've brought a guest with you," she observed, bringing the attention of the three other women in the room to the two incomers.

Whatever the atmosphere had been in the war room before their arrival had altered, gasps audible as Cassandra walked with her head held high to Lavellan's side. The witch, Morrigan, had been included in this meeting, and the Seeker was hard-pressed to admit she was annoyed at not also having an invitation when Empress Celine's pet had clearly received one instead of her.

Josephine was the first to show true elation at Cassandra's presence. "What a wonderful surprise!" The Ambassador smiled in her direction, and Lavellan turned to offer her own wordless agreement to the sentiment.

Cassandra glanced between them for a moment before her reddened eyes rested on Leliana. "I wish I could claim the same," she uttered, her voice like a sharpened dagger. Truly, all she was doing was removing the dagger from her back that the Spymaster had planted there in the first place. "What is our current objective?"

Leliana caught the look in her eye, feeling suddenly wary, and she used Cullen's movement toward his central spot between herself and Josephine to break the stare. "…We were about to open discussions regarding the upcoming mission in the Arbor Wilds," she stated evenly, nodding toward Morrigan in deference.

"Indeed," the witch replied to this. "'Tis high time for such plans to take form."

Crossing her arms, Lavellan shifted her weight from one hip to the other, studying the Seeker over her shoulder. "Cassandra, are you alright?" Her brows drew together beneath her deep green Dalish markings. "You look… angry."

"Or, I suppose the fate of the world can wait until you're all in a more agreeable mood," Morrigan glowered, her strange yellow eyes narrowing a fraction – though Cassandra supposed she was in no position to judge anyone's eyes…

Shaking her head, the Inquisitor brought her attention back to the map. "Never mind. We'll talk after."

Leliana cleared her throat, signalling the continuation of the proceedings. "So, as you were saying, Morrigan… With an eluvian, Corypheus could cross into the Fade in the flesh?"

Relieved to be back on track, she nodded once. "Indeed. The Inquisitor can attest that these artefacts still work if one knows how to use them."

Cassandra didn't know how Lavellan would know first-hand. Was it something to do with her heritage, or had the witch taken her aside to explain the eluvians to her? She'd been out of the loop for so long; she'd have to work hard to get back into it.

"What happens when Corypheus enters the Fade?" Cullen asked calmly, though he seemed chilled at having to consider the notion at all.

Morrigan turned her gaze and eyed the Commander. "Why, he will gain his heart's desire, and take the power of a god," she stated matter-of-factly. Looking to Lavellan then, she added, "Or – and this is more likely – the lunatic will unleash forces that will tear the world apart."

The Inquisitor wasn't at an angle for Cassandra to read her expression, but the gravity in her elven voice told her all she needed to know. "In Redcliffe, I saw the future Corypheus built. We can't let that happen."

Morrigan smirked at that. "'Twas always so, was it not? The madman would bury us all."

Stepping forward, Josephine hugged her board as much as she could without upsetting the candle upon it. "Pardon me, but… does this mean everything's lost unless we get to the eluvian before him?"

"Corypheus has a head start," Cullen confirmed grimly, "no matter how quickly our army moves."

The Ambassador met his concerned eyes and took a deep breath. "We should gather our allies before we march."

"Can we _wait_ for them?" Leliana asked dubiously. "We should send our spies ahead to the Arbor Wilds."

The Commander turned to her, ready to argue the point. "Without support from the soldiers? You'd lose half of them!"

"Then what _should_ we do?" Josephine stressed, frustrated at their lack of a clear path forward.

Inquisitor Lavellan held her hands up before her as if to force them to relax while she thought. "For starters, we don't let Corypheus worry us to death. Imagine how embarrassing that would be," she quipped, the corner of her mouth upturning. Cassandra liked that about her. Though she had found the elf's propensity to jest in difficult times annoying at first, it did not hurt to release the tension every now and again. "Josephine, have our allies send scouts to meet us in the Wilds. Leliana, your fastest agents will join them. Together, we'll have enough spies to slow down Corypheus' army until Cullen's soldiers arrive."

There was a slight giggle from Lavellan's other side, surprising the Seeker. The witch cleared her throat as if realising this was neither the time nor the place for mockery. "Such confidence," Morrigan praised sardonically, "but the Arbor Wilds are not so kind to visitors. Old elven magic lingers in those woods," she reminded them gravely of the dangers.

Josephine bowed her head slightly in respect. "We'd be remiss not to take advantage of your knowledge, Lady Morrigan. Please, lend us your expertise."

Cassandra did her best to disguise the scoff that had nearly breached her throat at the Antivan's ass-kissing. Luckily, only Cullen and Leliana had noticed, and neither drew attention to it.

Pleased with herself, Morrigan nodded back in the Ambassador's direction. "'Tis why I came here," she reminded them before adding in all seriousness, "although it is good to see its value recognised."

The plan decided upon, Cullen raised his eyes to Lavellan. "Any further instructions, Inquisitor?" He asked, giving her the last word before the meeting was brought to a close.

Sighing softly, the Dalish met the stares of her advisors, mentally preparing herself for the task ahead. "We've embarked on a quest that ends in facing the most powerful monster in all Thedas," she made her poignant pronouncement. Then a soft smirk touched her lips, her eyes glinting. "Do get a good night's sleep."

The Commander smiled back softly, catching her sarcasm. "As you wish," he replied in good humour.

Leliana looked like she was ready to do battle herself, voice going cold. "We'll hound Corypheus in the Wilds until he can find the temple or this 'eluvian.'"

At that, the war council had concluded and, once Lavellan properly marked the map on the war table, they all moved to take action, heading out.

However, Cassandra finally found her voice. "Before this council is concluded, I wish to settle something once and for all."

They all paused in their departure, shooting glances at one another as they slowly made their way back to their places. "You have something to add regarding the battle, Lady Cassandra?" Josephine wondered.

"Of sorts," the Seeker replied gruffly. She met Lavellan's curious stare and resisted the urge to cross her arms, wanting to appear as strong and forthright as possible. "I did not come here with the intention of putting further pressure on you, Inquisitor, but there is something I must know: who have you decided to nominate as the next Divine?"

There was a soft sigh to her right, Josephine audibly grateful to no longer be the only one pushing that issue, but as they all turned their focus to the Inquisitor, it was clear that she was surprised by the topic, if not also disheartened.

"I…" Lavellan faltered, her gaze shuffling around to the other attendees before circling back to Cassandra. "I haven't exactly set anything in stone, yet."

That had been entirely expected, but after everything she had been through, the Seeker was unwilling to leave it any longer. "Nevertheless, I grow tired of waiting to hear news. Please, Inquisitor, let us settle the matter now and be done with it."

Morrigan inserted herself, taking all of them aback. "You've not yet made a definitive choice, Lavellan? My, 'tis indeed late in the game to be dwelling on this issue, but 'tis an easy choice when compared with the strategies you have already laid out for obtaining the eluvian."

Lavellan appeared frustrated at that, as if the suggestion that this was easy at all was some form of insult to her intelligence. "I've not found the idea of selecting one of three friends _simple_ , Morrigan."

The witch waved a hand dismissively. "'Tis no different than choosing the future king or queen of Ferelden. Wouldn't you agree, Leliana?" She asked, casting a glance back toward the former bard.

Her confidence swelling, the Spymaster's eyes smiled. "Well, I'd certainly like to take it off the table for good."

Nodding in satisfaction, Morrigan held her chin high as she looked back at the elf at her side. "Were I in your shoes, Inquisitor, the choice would be clear. Indeed, I've known her for quite some time, and believe she would serve Thedas well as Divine."

Realising she didn't have much of a relationship with Celine's pet, Cassandra immediately deduced that Morrigan was not referring to herself, but Leliana straightened proudly in her peripheral vision, and the Seeker recalled that the two had a long history dating back to the Fifth Blight. Narrowing her eyes in frank mistrust, she waited for the witch to quit stalling.

Relenting, Lavellan sighed and tossed her hands up slightly in invitation. "Well, who would you nominate? I'm willing to entertain any ideas."

The corner of Morrigan's lips upturned in a wry smile. "Why, Madame Vivienne de Fer, of course."

That had been quite the shock to Cassandra, let alone Leliana, whom reeled slightly before her jaw dropped in outrage. " _Morrigan!_ "

She appeared to be revelling in the reaction she'd garnered. "I take it by your outrage, Leliana, that you had presumed I would select you?"

The Spymaster glared, metaphorical quills rising on her back defensively. "If you still desire freedom for the mages, _yes_ ," she argued. "You would be wise not to choose Vivienne. She wishes to re-establish the Circles, and if my memory is accurate, Morrigan, you made your disdain for the Circle of Magi well-known during the fall of Kinloch Hold." She ignored the quiet noise of alarm Cullen made at the reminder, his hand instantly going to the bridge of his nose as he clenched his eyes shut and desperately tried not to relive his old memories in their presence.

"The populace has been indoctrinated into fearing mages for too long to simply open the doors and allow all mages to roam freely at a nod," Morrigan explained her position to her one-time companion. "'Tis indeed unfortunate, but the reception they'd receive would surely end in bloodshed. To make Madame Vivienne _Divine_ , however, will show all Thedas that mages are capable of careful and steadfast leadership. You and I both know that our dear Warden was never given the opportunity to be the benevolent Queen of Ferelden. Once the people see a mage in power who does not hold ill will towards them or snatch their children away for blood sacrifice, it will quell apprehensions. Eventually, mages would be safer to live lives of relative peace. And Madam de Fer knows how to accomplish this, given her time as Court Enchantress."

"' _Eventually'_ being the key word," the redhead scoffed, folding her arms as if in challenge.

Morrigan trained her golden eyes on the Spymaster, lowering her voice calmly. "We have both changed since the days of the Blight. I have learned to play the long game," she spoke slowly, appearing to peer into the heart of the woman, "whereas you seek to force your views upon a deaf world incapable of listening. One might view this as tyrannical. Indeed, I shudder to imagine the consequences of allowing someone who slits throats in shadow for a living to achieve high office."

Finding his voice again, Cullen shook his head and gestured toward the Seeker, hoping to suggest another alternative everyone had seemed to overlook until now. "What about Seeker Cassandra? She wishes to mend the harm done to mages _and_ templars. There's room to heal both and bring about peace that way."

Though the Commander bowed out again as he fought the rising tide of a tension headache, Cassandra kept her eyes trained on him. After all that had befallen her, he still believed in her to the point where he was now vouching for her candidacy. Her heart rate increasing, she had to admit to herself that she had no desire for the position whatsoever, but her reasons for fighting her ascension were now stolen from her. Pursuits of the heart were forbidden for the Most Holy, yet those pursuits were no longer an obstacle, as painful as it was to admit.

And since Leliana had been the one to encourage that severance of ties, and Vivienne the one who had tried to wield them for her own gain, Cassandra now felt strongly that she had been played. Both of her fellow candidates were well-versed in the Great Game while she had no mind for politics, and it was just possible that the Seeker had overlooked the possibility of the Spymaster going behind her back for this exact purpose…

"There is so much good I could do as Divine," Leliana gritted her teeth as she eyed the floor. "Cassandra may not have long to –"

"To _what_ , Leliana?!" Cassandra snapped at last, garnering surprised gazes all around her. " _Say_ it! I know you have orchestrated recent events to your advantage! It seems to me that you did not expect me to recover at all!" The heat in her glare must have had a stronger physical change than she was aware of, and as the corners of her vision reddened, she suddenly understood their horrified glances, though she'd gone too far to stop now. "Is _this_ why you convinced him to walk away from me, so you could take the Sunburst Throne for yourself?! How _dare_ you?!"

Leliana's ire at the accusation reached a boiling point. "Is this _you_ who accuses me of treachery, Cassandra, or the red lyrium?"

The Seeker gripped the hilt of her sword in open invitation to do more than battle with words, but Lavellan intervened, standing before her to block her path. "I have a right to be livid," she shouted over the small Dalish. "Do not try to paint me as insane when I have every reason to suspect you!"

Ever the mediator, Josephine took a shaking breath and stepped forward. "Lady Cassandra," her soothing voice tried for reason through the madness, "Leliana truly was concerned for your well-being, as were we all. It wasn't an easy proposal to make to poor Varric, but the decision was left to him. In the end, he did what he thought was best for you; I am certain of it."

"None of you have the authority to interfere in _my_ affairs," Cassandra blared in righteous indignation. "My life is mine!"

"Your life is the Most Holy's, whomever she may be, and the Inquisition's," Leliana stressed, though she had calmed somewhat, "as is mine. We didn't even substantiate the truth in the rumours until he confirmed them to us… We used to share everything, Cassandra… Why would you not let me in?"

At first, she had believed Leliana was going easy on her due to her affliction, which had frayed her nerves all the more, but at the Spymaster's unexpected glance of hurt (and a touch of remorse, if the Nevarran read her correctly), she second-guessed herself. Perhaps she had jumped to the wrong conclusion…

Despite this, Cassandra had not warmed to her old friend, instead going markedly cold, her movements stilling as she stared at the woman across the table from her. "'Do not let your Left Hand know what your Right Hand does,'" she quoted quietly, not tearing her eyes away. "That is what Divine Justinia once told me… It seems she was right. Everyone knows what you are capable of when handed a knife with which to cut others."

A moment of uncomfortable silence ensued as all eyes turned to Leliana, who attempted to make her features blank and unreadable. "She was referring to charity, if I recall," she almost whispered her reply, sounding choked up at the harshness in Cassandra's sentiment.

The Seeker looked away, practically able to feel their bonds of friendship breaking as she uttered bitterly, "And what you did could not be called charitable in the slightest."

When Leliana stepped back and looked to be preparing to leave the war room, clearly overwhelmed and not willing to say more, Cassandra immediately regretted her words. She'd spoken them impulsively, desiring to hurt her friend as thoroughly as she had been hurting these past few days. Closing her eyes and focusing inwardly, she knew she would never have spoken those words without the red lyrium driving her rage, and she forced control over her emotions, even though she suffered exceedingly in her efforts.

The room was oppressive in its silence, the verbal lashing too fresh for anyone to risk changing the subject. Regret flooded her, and in that moment, she promised herself that she would never again lose sight of what was important to her, nor let the lyrium fuel her fiery words. Leliana had been right in that her anger was not entirely her own, anymore.

But this could not go on without Cassandra admitting she had been in the wrong…

"Leliana… I –"

"I've made my decision."

Cassandra blinked hard, having forgotten the point of the argument entirely. Her eyes, along with those of Morrigan and the advisors, drifted to the elf, whom walked to the table and gingerly touched the pin on the map corresponding with the choice she was being forced to make.

Josephine stepped forward with dignity and laid her board down on the table, searching for the most recent request from Val Royeaux amongst her parchments. "…Very well, Mistress Lavellan," she stated coolly, giving over the embossed letter to the Inquisitor and placing a hand of support on the woman's narrow shoulder. "What would you have me tell the Grand Clerics…?"

**~oOo~**

Varric stumbled into the main hall, bleary-eyed and the worse for wear, ignoring the outward stares of disgust at the state he was in. He moved to the fireside like a moth to flame, focusing on the dance of colour and energy whilst those around him whispered of gossip he couldn't give less of a shit about, these days. They'd talk, and there was nothing he could do to stop it; he'd only invite more if he tried to address it in any way. Brushing the bits of dust from his shoulder, he ran a hand through his greasy hair and used a leather tie to cinch it back, searching blindly with his feet for his chair. When he found the leg, he kicked it round to face the fire and plunked down, resting his arms against his thighs as he leaned forward. This wasn't the best position to alleviate his hunger pangs, but it was hard to stomach the thought of food when he was beginning to feel the tug of the worst hangover in recent memory.

The best remedy for a hangover, of course, was more drink. Varric reached for his silverite flask and thumbed off the cork, accidentally losing it as it shot headlong into the fire. _Oh, well_ , he shrugged to himself, _guess I'll just have to drink until it's gone._ Not that this wasn't the plan to begin with.

Just as he'd raised the cool metal to his lips, he caught a woman standing on the edge of his hazy vision and turned his head, unintentionally spilling a few drops down his front. Wiping at it with a glove, he lowered his brows toward her. "What?" He muttered hoarsely, not exactly in the mood to exchange pleasantries.

"Madam de Fer requests your presence on the balcony, messere," Commander Helaine said, unable to hide her frank distaste, "though I'm baffled why someone like you should be worthy of an audience."

Sighing, Varric stood and walked around the table, the Commander retreating a few steps as her nose crinkled. "Someone's a little ray of sunshine," he bit curtly, walking down the hall and finding the door to the stairs.

He shouldered it open, careful not to drop his flask, and saluted the onlookers whose disdain was barely hidden beneath their painted masks. The door slammed shut, and he climbed the cold stairs at a steady pace, careful to gauge the placement of his numbed feet. He made it to the landing, then placed his hand on the wall until his boot touched the next flight, wondering all the while why Vivienne hadn't just shouted down to him from her balcony room instead of sending that elven Commander. What was she the Commander of anyway? Eh, knowing the Iron Lady, though, this summons was entirely in her character, and he made a mental note to remember that for his novel about her.

Varric dragged the soles of his boots at the top of the steps and moved behind Grand Enchanter Fiona to the next archway, hoping that the short trek to Vivienne's reception area had been as quick as he felt it was. There was no telling how long mundane tasks actually took when he was this deep in a drinking binge. Lifting his eyes to the twin armchairs reserved for tea and pleasant conversation, he discovered that Helaine was already standing nearby. How had she beaten him here? Damn, he must have been slower on those dark steps than he'd thought.

He spotted the horned headdress of the Iron Lady out on the balcony, the enchantress leaning against the stone railing from her observation deck, as he had dubbed it. She always looked like a captain supervising her crew on the stern of a ship, much like Rivaini when they'd sailed together in brighter times. Not bothering to adjust more than the bare minimum, he nodded at the elf and passed through the open glass doors, the crisp air hitting him square in the chest.

Vivienne turned at his entrance and patted the railing to her left in invitation. "I believe congratulations are in order, my dear."

 _Congratulations?_ He hadn't done anything worth her praise in a week, maybe. "…Is this some sort of sarcastic reference to the giant hole in the wall downstairs?"

She watched the soldiers and commoners below for a moment before craning her delicate neck to face him, a thin brow raised. "Is there a giant hole in the wall?"

Not that, then. "Oh. Nothing worth mentioning… What's this about?"

Her attention shifted again to the throngs on the ground, taking a deep breath as if it renewed her very spirit. "The Inquisitor has wisely chosen to support my bid for the next Divine."

Varric felt her words like a punch in the gut. "Oh… Wow, that's…" The news was definitely worth celebrating to a degree, but not to the same extent the decision once would have meant for him. Closing his eyes to process this for a moment, he turned the other way and snuck a sip from his flask to drown the pain in his throat. Once again, his thoughts had turned to Cassandra, and he wondered if she also felt the bitterness he did at realising what they had hoped for all along was now a moot point.

"That's great, Iron Lady," he struggled to admit, straining to inject the proper amount of happiness for her into his tone. "…I was rooting for you."

"Truly?" Vivienne smiled faintly, "I'm flattered. Thank you for your kind vote of confidence."

Doing his best to ignore his heart tearing at the seams, he asked, "How does it feel?"

"Empowering, my dear," she admitted, graciousness oozing from her every word. "There is much I aim to accomplish in this position…" Turning to face him, she absently smoothed her stylish mage robes and lowered her chin to better look at him. "Though I've yet to be coronated, I invited you here so that I might issue my first decree as the head of your religion. You _are_ still Andrastian, I take it?"

He paused, a ginger brow raising as he brought the flask at level with his chest. "That hasn't changed… What can I do for you?"

In one smooth motion, she placed her palm over the mouth of the flask before he could raise it to his lips, pushing it back down. "Stop. Drinking."

His bloodshot eyes widened for a moment, almost ready to laugh at her request, but as he looked up, he caught the seriousness in her hard expression.

"Any spirit when abused will become a demon, Varric," she began lecturing him, "whether that spirit is in corporeal or liquid form. And you have many demons in you to slay. You no longer consume it, darling; rather, it is consuming you. Is that not how you would also assess your current situation?"

He grimaced slightly, casting his eyes down to the flask. She sounded like his mother, but to be fair, she had good reason to be concerned. "It's gotten so bad that I need an intervention, huh?"

Vivienne shook her head in dismay. "My dear, you're extremely unkempt, your garments reek of stale hops and day-old sick, your _hair_ is… _highly_ unseemly…" Her nose twitched, the only indication she gave beyond words of her distaste at his appearance. "How are you ever to be seen traveling with the new Divine of Thedas? Deplorable, if I must say. You've been neglecting yourself, and it shows, darling. And smells, might I add."

He'd always taken pride in his appearance before, and she was right: he'd let himself go after the unexpected breakup. It didn't do him any good to show his face in the light of day, the way he looked now. "Yeah, you're right, Iron Lady…"

But then he registered the other implication she'd made. "Wait. We're going somewhere?"

She brightened at that, glad to have the topic shift back to herself. "Of course we are, darling! I'd not _hear_ of having a mere _messenger_ boy deliver the Inquisitor's fine pronouncement to the Grand Clerics." She took a deep breath, her decision made. "No, I shall present it to them in person, and instil their confidence in me straight away, ensuring a seamless transition of power. I find myself in need of a few things from the market in Val Royeaux to prepare for my new position." She leaned on the railing again, looking down on what Varric now assumed she perceived as her loyal subjects, warmth in her deep brown eyes. "You will holiday with me at my chateau, along with whomever else you wish to accompany you. As I understand it," the Iron Lady turned her eyes to him slowly, something strange and knowing behind her pensive stare, "you also have business to conclude at the capital… Or am I mistaken?"

His heart raced in his chest. Though he hadn't considered it an option before, Varric found himself more than ready to face down that poisonous thorn in his side…. "No, I have a couple of loose ends to tie up, that's for sure," he stated, jaw clenching beneath his unshaven beard.

It was time to confront the composer of this dark symphony.

And what better time to do it than when he was at his most raw, right?

"Splendid, my dear," Madame Vivienne waved a hand. "Wash yourself – thrice, if I might offer a recommendation – and pack something suitably presentable. Do not embarrass me before the Grand Clerics by dressing like a common Free Marcher. You've researched court life; you know what is and isn't appropriate."

With the utmost respect for his regal friend and her new appointment, Varric bowed as deeply and as gallantly as he could, no hint of mockery in his gesture. He could tell she was smiling as she hummed to herself, and as he leaned up, he obeyed her decree by offering the flask for her to claim from his possession. She took it with a heartfelt smile, glad that he'd agreed to sobriety for not only her sake, but his own.

"As you wish, Divine…?" He let the title hang in the air, curious as to what she would call herself.

She bowed her head in kind. "…Victoria, my dear Varric," she breathed, looking to the sky in anticipation of better days to come. "Yes… Yes, I think that shall be _quite_ satisfactory…"


	26. Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, He's off to Val Royeaux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I begged the Fanfiction Writer's group on FB to talk me out of the title of the chapter, but damn it, they talked me INTO it. So blame them for your earworm. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

She awoke with a ragged gasp, entangled in sheets dampened from cold sweat, her whole body heated to a feverish pink hue. A powerful surge had disturbed her, ripping her from the Fade and out of a nightmare, though the details of the terror were difficult to shake in the midst of yet another attack.

Cassandra rose erratically and threw the blankets aside, stumbling past the furniture to her wash basin on a pedestal in the corner. She poured chilled water from an enchanted crystalline ice decanter given to her by Vivienne at the start of her recovery, and set it aside before splashing her face to wake herself up. Images still danced before her eyes… A warrior encased in glowing red crystals, forcing her mouth open and entering through her mouth bodily to step into her skin, pulling her legs over his as though they were but trousers, her arms on as if they were mere sleeves, the pressure inside bursting her wide open while he wore her like a suit to assume her very identity.

She looked down at her hands in the dim moonlight shining through her drapes, dark, poisoned veins throbbing up her forearms like a black shadow steadily creeping toward her. Her blood called out in that same inhuman voice, beckoning her to surrender mind and body over to its whims.

Odd movement to her right caught her attention, and Cassandra's heart nearly leapt from her throat as she spotted the delicate decanter lift ghost-like from the pedestal, floating impossibly before her face. Filled with terror, she threw out her hand and knocked it to the floor, where it cracked in three pieces, the icy water forming a pool on the floorboards near her nightstand.

Trembling, her other hand reached up to grasp the amulet on her chest in desperation. "Andraste preserve me," she prayed aloud, though her thoughts were delirious at best. Had it actually been floating, or was her sanity slipping slowly from her grasp…? "Maker, help me shoulder this terrible burden. Make it _stop_ …"

The whispers quieted as she spoke, the amulet working to quell most of her swelling horror, but to her utter turmoil, it wasn't nearly enough to dispel the waking nightmare she now lived. She urgently needed to go to a place where she might be heard more clearly, somewhere she could be close to the Maker and His Bride, and find comfort in the solace of their approving gazes.

Denying the red lyrium the pleasure of assuming control had almost debilitating effects, weakening her enough for Cassandra to believe it was vindictively robbing her of strength as punishment for possessing a strong will with which to fight. Regardless, she hugged her elbows and crossed her room to the war chest at the foot of her bed, straining to raise the lid and rifle around for her armour. Her chest plate felt heavy in her arms when she lifted it up, dropping it on her mattress and gasping for breath, arms braced on the solid footboard for support. Knees shook, breath shuddered, elbows locked, the intensity of these bouts beginning to increase, and lasting longer than before. Either her resistance was faltering, or her ill-advised brush with temptation in the yard earlier had proven to be a worse lapse in judgement than she could have imagined.

Cassandra gripped the wood until her knuckles shone white, pulling herself slowly to her bedside and all but collapsing down on the feather-stuffed mattress. She paused for a long moment to catch her second wind before forcing herself back up, staring with determination at the chest of drawers beneath the window, impossibly far away. Biting her tongue to keep from groaning, she got back to her feet and took a tentative step forward, followed by another, and promptly fell to her knees on the floorboards, the song in her skull screaming for release. Her mouth hung open as she stared at the spasms in her fingers, unsure whether or not the pain in her throat indicated she was shouting along with the harrowing cacophony, but she pushed past her fear and crawled forward, a hand feeling blindly for the knob of the bottom drawer.

Sweat drenched her simple cotton nightgown, and she hissed each breath through clenched teeth, at least bearing out the worst of it. When she at last made it to the drawers, she sat down heavily against them, waiting out the madness while she desperately distracted her mind with calm verses from the Chant of Light.

_Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written…_

_In their blood…_

_Maker, is this truly Your will for me…?_ What had she done to deserve such suffering? Was this a test she was meant to pass?

Or was she being used like fodder in a test designed for someone else?

The power of the surge died down under the amulet's glow, the torture mercifully passing over the Seeker for the moment. Still trapped in a daze, she blinked through the darkness, her hand automatically reaching inside the drawer to retrieve a pair of reinforced leggings.

There was no point in sitting around to wait for fate to claim her. She needed guidance more than rest, now. Picking up her clothes, she carefully rose to finish dressing herself and secured the armour in place, strapping her scabbard to her hip before heading out the door and into the night.

**~oOo~**

She struck her match against the pumice stone on the altar, shielding the new flame with her palm as she lit a candle in the chapel. Joining her hands in prayer, she knelt before the statue and closed her weary eyes, anxious to feel the Maker's touch on her spirit, if only for a moment. Unable to sleep, it was all Leliana could think to do when the keep was lost to dreams.

"O Maker, hear my cry," she prayed, pressing the thumbs of her clasped hands to her forehead in earnest. "Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places…"

Silence filled the still air, the only sounds those of the whispering of the burning wicks. How she longed to hear the Maker as clearly as she had in Lothering all those years ago, but that had been wishful thinking only… She'd made herself believe a lie, and now she spent her days convincing others to do the same…

"O Creator, see me kneel," Leliana continued, her light voice a mere shadow dancing in the dark. "For I walk only where you would bid me. Stand only in places You have blessed. Sing only the words You place in my throat…"

It had been ages since she had sung the ballads of a true bard, the song that had lighted her spirit losing heart as the world around her had crumbled once again. She'd helped to save the world once, and had naively believed in that "happily ever after" the ending of the Blight had seemingly promised. But everything had gone back to the way it once was: corrupt, wicked, scheming in shadows, plotting in secret, striving for power. And she'd let herself believe that, this time, the Maker had a righteous path for her to walk, one that led her to the Sunburst Throne.

But it wasn't to be. Again, she had been blindsided by His so-called plan.

She'd never heard the chapel door open at her back, focused more on her pleas for understanding to take notice of anything else happening around her. And when the Right Hand of the Divine knelt silently at her side, Leliana raised her head in astonishment.

Cassandra didn't look her way, her red eyes more intense than the Spymaster had remembered them ever being previously. The heat radiated from her like a hearth fire, yet somehow a cold chill penetrated Leliana to the bone. Artery and vein alike stood out on her pale skin – or what she could see of it beyond the armour she wore. She suddenly felt underdressed in her own light leathers, sans her usual chainmail and draping hood, but she understood Cassandra's instinctive impulse to arm herself, especially when her health was clearly hanging by a thread.

"My Maker," her friend struggled to pray through her breaking voice, "know my heart: Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain…" Leliana kept her gaze averted as she spoke, her spirit torn asunder as she felt the sincerity of Cassandra's appeal. "Judge me worthy of Your endless pride." She paused for a moment to breathe, the simple act a struggle to complete. "My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I might be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval…"

If fire alone could cleanse her, Leliana would have set her ablaze right then and there. The suffering she endured was unimaginable, and had surely brought her here in search of answers. How could the Maker pass this cup to Cassandra, of all people? She was so steadfast in her faith, certainly more so than even herself. Never had she questioned the Maker's will so brazenly as Leliana had, and yet she was the one the Maker had seen fit to die needlessly… _No,_ she thought bitterly. _I refuse._

"O Maker, hear my cry," the Seeker tried to complete the last verse. "…Seat me by Your side in dea–"

"Don't say it," she interrupted quickly before she could stop herself. "Don't ask that of Him, Cassandra."

She looked up, angled brows furrowing over bright red eyes, but her expression softened in understanding. If she asked to be one within the Maker's glory, He just might grant it. The panic that had resided at the back of the Orlesian's mind since the day of Varric's return reached the forefront, the thought of having to bury her dear friend beneath the mountain bringing tears to her blue eyes. It was unfathomable, the possibility never crossing her mind so vividly until tonight.

Without thinking twice, Leliana reached out and grasped Cassandra's clasped hands, wishing that with her simple gesture she could transfer all strength to her, to help her fight the curse in her body. In wordless reply, she bent her head and laid her temple against the Spymaster's cold fingers, sighing slowly in appreciation. The bonds that had frayed in the War Room earlier that day had been stitched back together in an instant, both Left and Right Hand joined in silent prayer. For what was Leliana without her rock of faith fighting by her side…?

"What was said today," she practically mouthed, her tone barely decipherable even in the stillness of the small sanctuary, "was unworthy of me… I was stubborn and emotional, and it shouldn't have gone as far as it did… Forgive me."

Cassandra raised her eyes to the altar and closed her tired lids. Whatever healing she had hoped to gain by coming here, she appeared to have received. "There is nothing to be sorry for, Leliana," she offered her full pardon unequivocally.

Shaking her head, the jaded Bard's eyes drifted away sadly. "But there is… I was the one who convinced the others that Varric should sever ties with you."

Silence again. The Seeker was statuesque beside her, not even her breath audible. Perhaps the confession had robbed it from her entirely. "There is also no need to confess," she revealed. "I already know."

Leliana was unaware that Cassandra had been informed, but then again she must have been, judging by the confrontation after the battle plans were laid out. "Was it Cullen?" She guessed, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"No," the warrior replied evenly, "he said nothing."

She nodded slowly in acceptance. It wasn't in the Commander's nature to cave under interrogation. After all, she'd witnessed him survive far worse in the past… "I suppose you just know me better than I thought you did."

Cassandra sat back, resting her elbows on her knees and slumping forward, a hand rubbing carefully over the painfully sensitive skin of her face. "I thought I knew myself," she sighed through her crisis of faith. "I thought I knew the Maker's will for me. But now?" She huffed out a breath. "…I don't know _what_ to think. I truly believed the Maker had other plans in mind. Now, those plans are no more than dust. I'd thought perhaps it was the Maker's way of clearing the path to the Sunburst Throne, but that was not so… What does He desire from me?"

Relaxing her posture, Leliana sat with a hand bracing herself up on the stone floor. "Our lives… Our deaths… Our suffering. Everything." Though she was being negative, there was at least one silver lining in all this. "As for Vivienne becoming Divine, I'm convinced it simply came down to the Inquisitor refusing to choose between either of us to preserve our friendship…" She met Cassandra's fiery gaze, ignoring the stark resemblance to smouldering coals in a dying fire and searching for the soft brown eyes buried somewhere under the lyrium. "If there still is one…?"

The red coals rolled. " _Ugh_ , Leli, enough."

She laughed softly at the underlying sentiment. "I'll take that as a yes…" Turning to her then, a smirk touched her lips. "And as your friend, I should say: _Really,_ Cassandra? _Varric?_ You could do far better."

The fact alone that the Seeker tried not to laugh was rewarding enough, lifting her spirits from the dark pit they'd fallen in. "Trust me, Leli, before all this, I would have agreed without argument, but…" Cassandra turned her face shyly, something Leliana had never witnessed her do, and the expression took her aback. "Varric was… thoughtful and kind. He could make me laugh and cry with only his words, spoken or written. Hopeful and bright, yet delightfully cynical and real. And sacrificial at times… It's difficult to explain without sounding like a foolish schoolgirl," she admitted, biting her dry, cracked lip softly at the sad memories. "In truth, despite everything, I wish he had not listened to you. I can't see how it could have been his fault, what happened out there. I was the one who lost the fight."

"When he left the War Room, the last thing I expected Varric to do was listen to us," she sighed regretfully. "He all but told us to take a long walk off a short pier."

Cassandra laughed softly at that, but there was an involuntary catch in her throat which cut off the levity instantly, and Leliana's heart ached to hear it. She had put that catch there in the first place, cutting the quilt of trust and love the two lovers had stitched together. It probably wasn't the best choice of words, either, seeing as the Seeker had been the one thrown literally from a pier into the murky waters of the Mire. Maker, why did she only break everything she touched…?

Reflecting on Cassandra's words again, Leliana turned to her suddenly, slight realisation hitting her. "He never offered you an explanation?"

She shook her head forlornly, a chill running up her back. "I can only speculate, though I have no real answers. We have not spoken since. Perhaps he wanted to tell me, but… I didn't give him the chance."

 _Andraste, guide me… What would you have me do?_ The Spymaster held her breath, not knowing how much to reveal, if anything. Without Varric, her friend was safer from harm, but she now was beginning to see that the Seeker was indeed still wounded, but in an entirely different manner. Leliana had been so intent on protecting Cassandra from the physical that she had never stopped to consider the emotional loss she'd borne on top of all else. How _deep_ was their relationship? Maker, had she completely underestimated the dwarf…?

"Cassandra… After we informed Varric of the origins of the attack, he was… disturbed. Distraught, even. He felt wholly responsible for everything. Looking back, I should have tried to ease those assertions, but I let him take the blame." She braced herself against the hard stare the Seeker was shooting her way, though she deserved any harshness directed toward her. "I wanted him to leave you alone for good. We had been told you were dead… None of us were willing to go through the pain of losing you again, and I thought… If he believed he was at fault for it all, the chances were greater that he would leave well enough alone." Meeting the wide-eyed gaze of her friend, Leliana's lips pressed to a fine line. "Now that I've had a chance to weigh my actions in a new light, I owe him an apology, too." She reached out her hand to rest on Cassandra's knee. "But as terrible as my transgressions are, you're safe from further harm now… And that is what matters most to me."

The Seeker's jaw was slack, her features numbed as thoughts buzzed through her mind faster than she could give them voice. She stirred, the hand on her knee falling away as she got her feet under her. "I should speak with him," she muttered, apprehension in her tone. It was clear she didn't know what she would say, but that was incidental in the grand scheme of things.

Rising from the stone floor, Leliana's blue eyes softened as she broke the news. "You can't. He's gone, Cassandra."

She stepped back in shock, her hand involuntarily shooting to the pommel of her sword, as it always did when faced with a tense situation. "What do you mean, ' _gone'_?! To the Arbor Wilds?! To _Kirkwall?!_ "

Crossing her arms over her chest uncomfortably, the Spymaster shook her head. "No, he left with Vivienne and the others for Val Royeaux just after the Inquisitor –"

"Why didn't he _tell_ me?!"

Her eyes narrowed warily, unsure of what she would do if Leliana said more, but she owed her the truth. Sighing, she ran a hand through her red locks and explained, "I heard Dorian ask if Varric was going to say goodbye to you first, but he shook his head." She swallowed hard to counter the dryness in her throat. "He said, 'If I play this right, I'll never have to say goodbye to her again.'"

Cassandra's eyes reddened as she glanced up at the statue on the altar, and her jaw set in determination when she stormed toward the chapel door. "Oh, fuck _all_ of _that_ shit!"

"Cassandra? Cassandra, wait!"

**~oOo~**

Blackwall dozed in and out of consciousness in the hay loft, the several blankets piled over him meant to keep the mountain chill at bay, but he kicked them down to his middle in frustration, worry keeping him from his dreams.

He'd bid farewell to the Inquisitor, Cole, Bull, and Solas just after supper, watching the winged messengers take flight from the rookery to deliver their battle plans to Leliana's spies. As the last of their forces marched on with the Commander for southern Orlais, his heart had stopped, for with him rode Lady Josephine, off to do Maker-knew-what in the fight against Corypheus. _Why had she gone to the battle?_ Guts wrenching within him, he laid helpless, worried sick that the subject of his unrequited love might come back injured… Or worse, not at all.

He turned on his other side, shoving his fists beneath the pillow in an effort to restrain himself. Cullen would watch over her; he'd not let her leave the safety of Skyhold unless he was assured of her safety. And Blackwall told himself this for the umpteenth time tonight, yet still his heart wouldn't stop racing long enough for him to sleep.

_If only there was something I could do._

"…Are you insane?! You _can't_ go on your own!"

"What's 'insane' is him leaving me behind!" A pause as two pairs of bootsteps drew close. "Master Dennet. Forgive the hour, but I need your sturdiest mount. Now."

Blackwall sat upright in his cot, thick black brows drawing together in alarm.

"Belay that order! You're in no condition to just ride off into the night! Do you even _remember_ the state you were in when you came back from –!"

"I was cleared, Leliana. If you believe I'd simply lie in bed and wait for someone _else_ to save me, you're gravely mistaken. I _will_ have a say in my own fate."

 _Maker's Balls, be careful what you wish for, you dumb bastard._ Hurriedly tossing the blankets aside, the warrior dashed to the other end of the loft, digging through his belongings and throwing on his armour haphazardly. _Varric's going to fucking kill me._ Blackwall brushed the hay from his backside and long black hair, slapping himself awake as he threw on his boots as fast as humanly possible, still listening to the kerfuffle going on at the barn door.

"Have you even thought through your plan?! What if the red lyrium decides to strike and there's no one around to help you?"

Cassandra's next remark cut deep. "How would that be any different than here? Why do you think I went to the chapel tonight?"

His hands fumbled while tightening the leather straps, securing his chest plate over the padded armour. _Sword: check. Shield: check. Rucksack – damn it, where is that bloody –_

"This is a sign; the Maker wanted me to find out. I am sure of it, now… What have you got for me?"

"Eh… Well, the dracolisk can get you to where you need to go in good time, ma'am. She's a hardy beast, if a bit fearsome-looking, but she'll treat you well if respected. It'd be nifty to see a legendary Pentaghast riding a fine creature with dragon's blood in her veins."

Doing a last-minute check for provisions, he mentally patted his own back for always having the foresight to be prepared to bolt at a minute's notice. He supposed all those years as a soldier and fugitive had at least _taught_ him a thing or two, in the end. Equipped at last, he walked to the ladder and slid down, landing silently in the straw coating the barn floor.

"I forbid you to go, Cassandra. _Stay with me,_ " Leliana was now all but pleading with her. "The others have either gone to the Arbor Wilds to take the eluvian, or to Val Royeaux to search for a cure for you. Why not wait and see what they –"

When the Spymaster caught sight of him, she gasped and threw a hand over her heart, but she looked grateful that it was only him that had walked out of the darkness, yet perturbed that he was armed and ready to be commanded. Frowning seriously, his steely gaze met Cassandra's, doing his best to quell his racing heart at sight of her faintly-glowing eyes. "…Are you sure about this, Lady Seeker?"

She eyed his armour curiously for a moment, but then she glanced between him and Leliana, bringing herself to her full height defiantly. "As sure as I've ever been about anything. Why? Are you going to try to stop me, too?"

Blackwall shook his head, scratching at his thick beard before approaching the dracolisk and opening the stable gate to lead her out. "No, there's not much point in arguing. I'm accompanying you." To the night watch high up on the battlements, he shouted, "Lower the drawbridge and open the gates!"

Leliana huffed incredulously, throwing a hand up in desperation for someone to see reason. " _You_ _can't_ go to the capital! _Here_ , you're Blackwall, but in their eyes, you're _Rainier_. You'll be torn apart by a mob before you can catch them!"

"I'll be in no more danger than Cassandra would be if left on her own," he pointed out sombrely, the click of the iron gates sounding as it rose. Remembering Varric's parting words, he pursed his lips and nodded toward the Seeker. "I made a promise, and hell if I'm about to break it. Saddle up. We ride tonight."

Shocked at what was happening, the bard stepped back, shaking her head in denial all the while. A mournful breath escaped her lips, deep concern written all over her face as Dennet finally finished fitting the saddle to the dracolisk's back. "You're mad," she protested weakly, hugging her elbows to fight not only the bitter chill.

Blackwall hooked his right foot in the stirrup and hoisted his weight up, settling properly before turning to take Cassandra's hand while the horsemaster assisted her in settling close behind him.

"I'll be back, Leliana," the Seeker swore her oath. "Thank you for telling me the truth."

"Hold tight," Blackwall bade her, waiting for her to wrap her arms around him before snapping the reins. " _Hyah!"_

**~oOo~**

"Wow! So, _this_ is Val Royeaux. Much more colourful than Orzammar, isn't it?"

Varric adjusted the fine ivory silk of his overcoat, striding past an ornate fountain in the market square, the light of dusk revealing several enchanting lights installed beneath the surface of the water. "I wouldn't know, Cupcake."

Dagna made an odd face, wincing and shaking her head. "Uh-uh. Try again; that one doesn't really work for me."

At his back, Dorian and Sera snickered together, attempting to keep their mirth to a minimum as Madam de Fer led the way past the shops to the high street. "I can't just pick another one out of thin air," the merchant prince protested, wondering absently whether some of the shops they passed might be worth his investments. "These nicknames have to come naturally."

The arcanist pondered for a moment as they went on, a light coming on in her head. "Oh, I get it! You want me to start over." Andraste's ass, that wasn't what he wanted. " _Ahem._ Wow! So, this is Val Royeaux. Much more colourful than Orzammar, isn't it, Red Dwarf?"

" _Wha_ -" He stumbled, staring at the woman in frank disbelief. If anything, it was nice not to have to strain his neck to meet someone's eyes, but… _still._ "I can _hear_ you, giggle twins," he grumbled over his shoulder. Turning back to Dagna, he complained out of the corner of his mouth, "You didn't say _that_ the first time! And that nickname is super awful. Don't use it again."

"I thought it was kind of clever," she defended her choice, neatly avoiding the rude gentleman that seemingly hadn't noticed the dwarves and nearly slammed into her. "I mean, you're wearing red – well, _usually_ \- your hair is sort of reddish, you're a dwarf…" She sighed, shrugging a carefree shoulder. "Oh, well. Wow! So _this_ is –"

"You know what, I'm _this_ close to calling you 'Ditzy' just based off this bizarre conversation."

Glancing around at all the glitz and glamour around them, Dagna eventually muttered, "Well, I don't know how I ever gave you that impression."

"Nope. I can't do it," Sera burst out laughing behind him, Dorian grinning as he hooked her arm in his and did everything to preserve propriety. To his credit, he smiled and waved politely at a group of nosey onlookers, the snazzy new outfit Lavellan had crafted for him deflecting most of the criticism directed their way.

"I'll just stick to Dagna until I can peg you down," Varric pursed his lips, watching as a few of the shops started to close their shutters for the night. "This is getting weird."

Sera couldn't help herself, of course. "How about the _Runemeister?_ That one has a ring to it!"

Dagna beamed, turning around and walking backwards. "Actually? That kind of works!" Vivienne had halted their pace with a great sigh, and the arcanist bumped clumsily into her leg before coming to a full stop. Embarrassed, she clasped her hands behind her back and lowered her eyes. "Sorry 'bout that."

Tapping her fingernails against her leg in aggravation, the Iron Lady took a slow, deep breath as she narrowed her brown eyes at them. "A certain degree of decorum is expected in the city, however dwarves aren't typically held to such standards, since most believe you _incapable_ of manners. For _my_ sake, at least _attempt_ to prove them wrong, darlings. And do try to control yourselves. For the love of the Maker, I am _seen_ with you." She fixed Varric with a glare then, as if to say, _I let you select your own party, and_ this _is how you betray me?_

"Read you loud and clear, Iron Lady," Varric nodded, the gold of his jewellery gleaming under the newly-lit street lamps. "I'll just take my 'associates' and get out of your hair while you finish up your errands."

Vivienne smirked, letting out a sigh of relief. "You're far too kind, my dear," her smooth voice graciously replied. "We'll rendezvous for tea this evening. Do be punctual." And with that, she walked perfectly on high-heeled boots to a shop window, knocking on the glass pane and smiling at the shopkeepers within who were closing for the night. At sight of the First Enchanter, the women inside instantly primped their hair and raced to the door, unlocking it to allow their regal companion inside.

"So!" Dorian pulled their attention in his direction. "Here we are, Varric. Would you be interested in paying a visit to your little friend? I'm sure we can occupy ourselves while you tear her a new one."

" _Pfft_ ," Sera scoffed, "like I'm sittin' that one out. I wanna introduce some of my arrows to 'er ass."

The prospect of confronting Bianca riddled Varric with enough anxiety to tie his guts into giant knots of pure trepidation. He knew she had a new workshop nearby – she'd said as much on that fateful night in Valammar – but the last thing he wanted to do was track it down and have that conversation with her, however inevitable it was at this point.

"Hey, look at that," Dagna brightened beside him, causing his chest to tighten in fear that Bianca had been spotted coming toward him. "An apothecary! Looks fully-stocked, too. Maybe they have something in there to help with Cassandra's affliction."

Frowning, Varric nodded in agreement, more than happy to dodge the issue for now. "Yeah, let's check it out," he shrugged. "You never know." He led the merry band to the door, noting the opening hours painted on a card secured to the window.

"Five minutes before closing, Varric," Dorian observed. "Be quick about it."

Sera pulled out her bow and held it close to her side. "They'll close when I _say_ so," she muttered, forcing open the door.

A bell tied to the top of the entrance alerted staff to new customers, and sure enough, a middle-aged human male in elaborate robes and an eye mask passed through the back curtain of the shop with a beaming smile. " _Bonjour et bienvenue, Mesdames et Messieurs! Je suis le propriétaire de cet apothicaire_ ," he greeted them in the purest Orlesian Varric had ever heard – and that was counting the damned Winter Palace. " _Comment puis-je être utile ce soir?_ "

One by one, they glanced at each other in confusion, and eventually all eyes turned to Dorian expectantly, whom shook his head and smirked, baffled. "While I consider myself cultured," he muttered to them, "even _I_ have my limits. As far as I was aware, only the Marshmen spoke pure Orlesian." Glancing at the man, their mage friend raised his voice as he slowly said, "Good evening to you. Do you speak the King's Tongue?"

"Oh! _Excusez-moi,_ _copians,_ " the proprietor waved his hands elaborately. "I should 'ave seen you were but _touristes_ by your, eh… how you say… 'garments'." The smile he gave them was disingenuous at best, but only Sparkler seemed to take offense at this explanation. "You 'ave come for somsing _spècifique_ , no?"

"Listen 'ere, fancypants," Sera cut through the bullshit, pushing her way to the glass counter and leaning over it conspiratorially. "Ever heard of red lyrium?"

The alchemist's eyes drifted to Varric and Dagna, his glossed lips pursing. "Will your _petit_ _copians_ not know more about zis? Ze lyrium eez mined by –"

"Not that blue shite _,_ " Sera rolled her eyes, laying her bow down on the counter to demonstrate her lack of patience. " _Red_ lyrium. Like _Red_ Jenny, or wotevah you say in Arrogant-ese. Wot's the word, Tevinter?" She asked suddenly, turning to her right.

The shopkeeper's eyes widened at the endearment the elf used, and his mouth fell open as he stared at Dorian. Chuckling nervously for a second, the altus shifted his weight from one hip to the other and straightened, the fact that Sera believed him fluent in the language of the arrogant not at all lost on him. "Ah, at a guess, Sera dear? _Rouge_ , I believe."

"Right, _rouge_ , or wot not. And I ain't talkin' cosmetics, right? It's like lyrium, but like really, _really_ red an' all glowy an' shit. Seen it? It was _everywhere_ outside the city until we got there and fixed it."

He shook his head. "I do not venture beyond ze glittering walls of Val Royeaux, where ze mud cakes on shoes like a dog's paws. I pay ozers to do zat for me."

Sera glared and growled under her breath, "Zen maybez you zhould openz yer eyezzz. Fuckface."

"Ah, okay, timeout," Varric interrupted the odd exchange, laying a hand on Sera's arm and guiding her away from the counter while desperately trying not to laugh. "Why don't you let me and Dagna take over, Buttercup?"

She froze in place, not letting him move her another centimetre before her demands were met. "Lemme hold Bianca and I'll shut my face."

Sighing, Varric reached over his shoulder and hoisted his crossbow out by her stock. When Sera reached out for her, the dwarf snatched her back quickly and tilted his head. "Don't shoot him."

"Wow, wasn't _gonna_. What d'ya take me for, Varric?"

"And don't shoot his pretty little glass jars on the shelves, either."

She pouted then and relieved him of Bianca with bitterness. "Shit. _Fine._ You sound just like Cassandra – no fun at all. She's rubbed off on you."

"You don't know the half of it…" Turning back to the counter while she fiddled with the contraption, he could see the hospitality on the proprietor's face hanging by a thread. "I'll beg your pardon for my friend. She's not a big fan of your hat," Varric smiled with his best salesman's charm. "I think it suits you just fine, though."

" _Pah. Elves_." The Orlesian huffed derogatorily and crossed his arms, the satin of his puffed shoulders accentuated like they were designed to inflate when annoyed. "I should very much like to go home, _monsieur_."

"As would we all, and I appreciate your assistance with our problem." He gestured to Dagna, allowing her to try explaining what they were after.

Scrunching her nose, the dwarven woman sighed, relenting to their deference. "Okay. Red lyrium is corrupted lyrium. It's more volatile, extremely dangerous, and doesn't have to be consumed orally to affect anyone near it. We have a friend who was poisoned with it, and we need a way to extract it from her."

The man was intrigued, bringing a solitary finger to his pursed lips. " _Intèressant_ … But will eet not lose potency on eets own?"

"Well, that'd be _nice._ And convenient," Dagna explained, "but unfortunately, no, we wouldn't be here if it did. Once taken, it stays in the blood and crystallises through the body. The only reason it hasn't _yet_ is because she has an enchanted amulet that's preventing it from growing out of her."

Varric winced subtly at the image of Cassandra encased in red lyrium like the ill-fated templars on the battlefields, but cleared his throat and asked doubtfully, "You got anything she could take that might help? The Inquisition would be grateful for your expertise on the matter."

He frowned, thinking for a moment while he turned his back and eyed the various labelled jars on the shelves, weighing hundreds of options at once. "Ze _Inquisition,_ you say…? I 'ave not encountered zis problem in all my decades running ze _apothicaire_ … _Un moment._ " He stepped beyond the curtain, leaving them to their own devices for a minute while he searched the back room.

"He won't have anything," Dorian predicted with pessimism. "And if he does, it's completely fabricated. I know his type."

"Yeah, I'm getting that vibe," Varric nodded regretfully. "He's never even heard of this shit before. Or he's playing dumb with us."

"Can you _believe_ the audacity of that man?" Sparkler went on, clearly miffed.

"What audacity?" Dagna wondered. "He's pretty friendly, for an Orlesian."

"That's what he _wants_ you to think," he replied, tapping his fingers on the glass counter as he leaned against it. "He came through speaking a language so foreign, even _Empress Celine_ doesn't use it in polite company, just to put us in our place. Then, he insults our clothes and calls us tourists!"

"We _are_ tourists," Sera's voice carried from the other side of the shop as she fiddled with the items lined up on the back shelf. "Well, you lot are."

"Hardly the point," Dorian muttered just as the man returned with a few jars of cloudy liquid and a rolled-up cloth.

"I 'ave eet," he smiled almost devilishly, laying them all out after Varric moved Sera's bow out of the way. "Zees will do ze trick." Opening one of the jars, he reached his hand into the murky water and pulled out –

"Holy shit," Varric stepped back in revulsion.

Sera jumped up and took quick strides over to her recoiling friends. "Wot? Wot's he got? Oh, ick," she commented, immediately taking a few steps backward.

"Maker's Breath," Dorian stared, appalled at the suggestion the man presented. "Is that a…"

Dagna turned her nose, but didn't take her eyes from the black, writhing creature between his long fingers. "Leeches," she mumbled sceptically. "You're kidding, right?"

He shook his head, smiling with his eyes behind the mint green mask. " _Non!_ Zey will drink ze blood, and ze lyrium will zen be removed! Eet will be _magnifique_ , I assure you, _Madame_."

Sighing in disappointment, Dagna shot a look to him, which the others couldn't see at their height. "If you want to test it out, Varric, I'll go along, but... You want my theory? Those blood suckers get corrupted, lyrium-addled blood in their bellies, and we'll have more trouble on our hands than any of us are prepared to deal with."

"Eh…" Varric waved a hand dismissively at the leech jars, looking to the cloth. "Got anything else less likely to infest the keep with giant slug monsters bent on draining us dry?"

"Ah, _oui, Monsieur._ " He unrolled the cloth theatrically, sending the end gliding on its own to unravel on the other side of the counter, revealing several blackened blades, a few wicked pairs of scissors, and odd iron rods with spikes on the stems which resembled little flags. Searching beneath the counter, he came up again with a long silk cloth and a gold bowl for his demonstration. "You take ze silk and tie ze… ah, how you say ' _tourniquet'?"_

Horrified, Dorian swallowed to relieve the sudden dryness of his throat. "Tourniquet," he breathed, eyeing the man as though he were insane.

" _Oui_. Zen you mus' pierce ze vein below ze tourniquet, _et –_ "

"Hang on," Sera held up a hand. "You're _seriously_ suggestin' bloodletting to us? Am I hearin' this right?"

His eyes darted to the companions as if they would be remiss to dismiss his advice. "Eef ze lyrium eez remaining een ze blood, zen you mus' remove ze blood, no?"

" _No_ ," Dorian puffed out his chest, irritated with the man completely, "we'd have to drain every drop for that to work, and that assumes it hasn't spread to her bloody organs, yet!"

"You know what," Varric raised his hands and turned around, handing the bow back to Sera and taking Bianca for himself again, "we'll just take our business elsewhere." As he made his way to the exit, he ushered everyone out, holding the door open for them.

Glancing back at the proprietor, he caught the look of smug satisfaction on the man's face and decided to make the Orlesian regret losing out on their custom. "It's a damn shame, too," he said in mock-disappointment, shaking a large pouch of gold coins strapped to his belt. "If we'd found what we were looking for, I might've been willing to invest, but I guess the _Guilde des Marchands_ will just have to say _au revoir_ to this place."

And a wry grin spread over Varric's lips as he watched the man pale alarmingly, careful to close the door gently behind him.

"That guy was takin' the piss," Sera grumbled, placing her bow on her back before fidgeting with the hems of her red sleeves.

"I had a bad feeling about it from the moment he opened his mouth," Dorian commented dryly, stroking the side of his moustache as they walked on down the cobblestones.

Dagna sighed, her brow furrowing as she thought. "It was a long shot," she admitted, "but it never hurts to ask around and get second, third, even fourth opinions."

"I bet he charges a fortune for all his stock," Varric's gravelly voice put in. "Nothing in there had price tags, and if you have to ask how much something is, you can't afford it. One look at us, and he figured he'd have some fun at our expense."

"Yeah, rich tits'll pay shitloads for stuff that don't even work. They like pissin' their money away for some stupid reason. But at least I had a laugh on the back end," Sera giggled to herself as dusk settled around them.

"You mean _besides_ calling him 'fancypants' and 'fuckface'?" Dorian wondered, raising his brows. "I do envy you for having so little tact that you can say whatever you fancy, Sera."

Her giggles increased in volume as she reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a couple of jars, filled with common herbs.

"You _stole_ from him?!" Varric asked incredulously.

"Not _just_ that," she laughed, placing them back in her bag before anyone else noticed, though the streets were well and truly abandoned. "I went and replaced them with my own recipe: Jars of Bees!"

Eyes going wide, Dagna threw a gloved hand over her mouth and tried her damnedest to stifle her giggles. "Well, _he's_ in for a big surprise," she managed to say, the four of them linking arms and walking merrily down the road. "I should get together with you guys more often! Hey, I'm hungry. Let's head back!"

"I'm in. I could use a nice cup of tea after such a trying day." Dorian smiled broadly before adding seriously, "Oh, and no one breathe a _word_ to Vivienne. Maker, she'd have our _heads_ for that."

**~oOo~**

The Iron Lady's chateau, constructed at some point in the Blessed Age, was modest by Orlesian standards, but 'modest' was still nothing to sneeze at, or so Varric had said as much when they'd first arrived. Duke Bastien de Ghislain had spoiled the Imperial Court Enchantress rotten, giving her the run of their summer home, which was, believe it or not, situated beside what might as well have been a castle several hundred acres away, belonging to Duchess Nicoline, Bastien's widow. No matter how he tried to wrap his head around that arrangement, he was still immensely impressed that she and Madam de Fer had been, and were still, close friends. If only he'd been so lucky, or had at the very least been fortunate enough for the women in his life not to take out seemingly random hits on each other. Oh, to be rich, well-connected, and ostentatious…

Dinner had been an otherworldly experience, but if someone put a knife to his throat, he couldn't say what the hell he'd been served. There was some variety of light cheese and rich greens, a dark, sweet reduction of something kind of fruity on the mystery meat, a few sauces dotted around the edges of the plates… Three courses in, and he'd never mustered the courage to ask what exactly he was being fed. It was either risk looking like an ignoramus, or shut his mouth and enjoy the chef's inventive, tasteful creations. And Maker forbid had he asked for seconds, even though the servings were only large enough to fill the little exotic birds out in the garden. _Wait_ … _was that strange meat an exotic bird?_ Varric shuddered and turned over on the massive four-post bed, dragging himself over satin sheets to the nightstand and reaching for the oil lamp. Luckily it came on without much trouble, but illuminating the ornate gold and pale blue surroundings didn't do much to redirect or distract his thoughts.

Halfway back to Vivienne's place, Sparkler and Buttercup had simultaneously recalled that they had meant to pay a visit to Bianca's workshop. They'd looked at him apologetically, promising to return to the city centre during normal business hours and hopefully catch his ex-lover then. Little did they know that he'd silently hoped they wouldn't remember until it was too late to turn around, keeping the forgotten errand to himself and feigning absentmindedness when it came up again. Yeah, it was true: he was a coward through and through. Andraste's ass, what was he going to say to her?

His heart sped up, mind wondering after the hour as he stared out at the moon hovering near the gathered window valance. It was just after midnight at most, by the looks of it, and the strings of nocturnal insects reached him even through the glass panes, drawn to all the splendour Madam de Fer's garden had to offer.

Something was going on outside his heavy bedroom doors, but he paid it no mind for now. Most likely, it was one of the servants making his or her way in the dark, or Dagna looking for somewhere to relieve herself, since door after door sounded very much like it was being opened. He laughed silently and scratched at his bare chest, hearing the person draw closer and wondering which hilarious line to spew when the dwarf peeked her head in after hours. _Nothing too inappropriate,_ he warned himself. _Don't want to scar the poor girl._

But his brows drew together as he cocked his head to the side, detecting something else as whomever it was approached. The doors weren't being quietly nudged open anymore, and as the occupants stirred within their rooms, intense conversation could be heard from a small gathering, doors bursting open on their shining hinges. _What the hell?_ Stirring, Varric tightened the drawstring on his roomy trousers and placed a foot on the floor –

Just as his bedroom doors burst open.

"There you are," she boomed breathlessly as she stormed inside. "Why did you leave?!"

Mouth hanging open as he stared at her, Varric's mind refused to accept what he was witnessing.

 _The Fade,_ his thoughts instinctively screamed. He had no recollection of touching anything weird or laced with blood magic in that bastard's apothecary, but he _must_ have. Otherwise, the world was now making a lot less sense than the spirit realm.

"Well… _Shit,_ " he groaned, rising from the bed and walking across the cream rug to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Finding my way out of this place! Maybe Sparkler knows what happened," he planned his next move aloud, leaving the demon with glowing red eyes standing in his chambers. Hurriedly, he looked over the high metal bannister to the large entryway below, watching in wholesale confusion as Dorian, clothed in naught but his dressing gown, engaged Blackwall in an argument at the door, along with a few servants whom offered to take the warrior's belongings and raced to search for leftover food in the kitchens.

The demon assuming Cassandra's form – shit, at least that's what he _hoped_ she was – stepped out onto the long overhead walkway. "This is nonsense, Varric. _Look at me_. I'm _here_."

"Yeah, we'll see about that," he mumbled, setting out toward the winding staircase on a brisk walk for the back door.

Nevertheless, she was following right behind him, persistent as the last demon who'd tried this trick on him. "If you thought I would simply sit on my hands while everyone else hunted for my cure, then you – what are you doing?!"

"Sparkler, what kind of super asshole spell is this?" He threw open the large Orlesian doors at the back of the chateau, fully expecting to find the green, pulsing vortex awaiting him to make an escape.

But there was only the green of the garden landscape to greet him, along with the cool midnight air on his bare chest. Grumbling loudly, he turned around and faced the group that had practically stepped on his heels to keep up. "You were _supposed_ to watch her and keep her safe, Hero!"

Tired and worn thin from the non-stop journey, Blackwall's voice betrayed his own frustrations. "Mind your tone; I've got my eye on her. But you didn't specify where the watching should be done."

Shaking his head in aggravation, Varric turned away from the three humans, still not convinced he was where he was meant to be. Sighing, the dwarf dutifully walked straight to the far end of garden, raising his eyes to the sky. No Black City looming in the distance, no mountainous boulders floating overhead disobeying the laws of reality. Knowing he was still being followed, he raced toward the gate just past the bird menagerie, determined to find the barrier that would lead him out of this elaborate maze.

And yet again, nothing telling lied beyond the end of the expansive property. Only the quaint forest setting as far as the eye could see. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding. How _big_ is this labyrinth?"

Just as he made an about face to confront the demon and fight his way out, she threw a solid punch, her fist landing squarely on his jaw. He reeled back from the impact, back pressed against the iron rods of the gate, which only just prevented him from falling to the ground from the sheer force.

" _Ow!_ " He cried out in shock. "Son of a – Damn it, what the _hell_ was that for?!"

Cassandra glared as she caught her second wind, her haunting eyes chilling Varric to his core. "You think you're trapped in the Fade, don't you? _That_ was to convince you that you're fine."

Rubbing the sore spot, he took a moment to process everything, his night having taken a sudden and unexpected turn. "Well, _thanks_ for the reality check… Sheesh, that hurt, you know."

She took a few steps away and paused in uncertainty near a tall hedge, glancing back at him timidly as he spoke. "Oh. Sorry. I don't really know my own strength; it… comes and goes somewhat erratically, nowadays."

 _Oh, Maker, she sounds just like the Seeker._ "Shit, you're… really _here_. You're _you_ ," he gestured toward her in disbelief.

"I am," she confirmed, loosening her chest plate and taking it off with great relief. Sighing, she knelt down on the grass and set the metal at a short distance from her. "I came after you. _Li_ _ve_ with it, Varric."

He had no idea what he was supposed to do with this information. The last time he'd seen her, Cassandra had blanked him completely and walked off into the keep. To be frank, it was better that she did, at the time. He'd been so shocked that she was on her feet and relatively normal (all things considered) that he probably would have made a complete ass of himself with inane small talk, which she abhorred beyond reason. With that in mind, he suppressed his outrage, not wanting to upset her in light of her condition, and waited for her to say what she had clearly come all this way for.

But as the silence grew, her rage only increased – if her sudden rise to her feet and quick pacing was any indication, but it sure looked that way. So, small talk was off limits, and silence was fairly unwelcome, too. _Oh, no, does she want answers?_ Things were about to get tense if that was the case.

"How could you leave me?!" She barked, halting her pacing to allow her red eyes to bore into his very soul.

He hated being so damn right all the time. Averting his eyes for as long as he could rightly get away with, Varric caught sight of a hand-carved garden bench, the bronze plaque affixed to it stating that it was placed there in loving memory of Duke Bastien de Ghislain. Stealing the opportunity, he crossed the grass slowly so as not to rile her, and sat down with care, leaving enough room beside him should she want to join him. "Seeker," he started, wholly unsure of himself as he thought of a way to justify his actions, "…I didn't really have much of a choice."

She stormed over to him yet again, and he kept his eyes down whilst simultaneously throwing his hands up to show her he had no intention of defending himself physically. "What do you mean? There's _always_ a choice," she shouted with disdain at him. "You could have at _least_ said –"

"I couldn't live with myself," he interrupted quietly. "Those assassins went after you that day, and I didn't get there in time. What's worse… they were there because of me."

He saw her straighten in surprise in his peripheral vision, but his shame was too strong to permit him to meet her eyes. He'd never wanted to fess up to her, and had hoped that she would be too bitter to ever demand an honest explanation, but once again, Varric had underestimated her spirit. He should have known she would hunt him to every corner of the map in her quest for truth, given how they'd met to begin with.

"They said they wanted revenge for Valammar, but… Well, I'd come to find out someone I trusted hired the Carta to kill you, and…" He swallowed hard, clasping his hands in his lap to keep from fidgeting under her unrelenting gaze. "I know you've been suffering, but you're not the only one. Everyone took it pretty hard, but I think it's safe to say not as much as me. I did this to you, and I shouldn't have let our secret get out in the first place…" Steeling himself for an assault, he squared his shoulders and raised his head, fixing his eyes on the back doors as a servant closed them at last, leaving them well and truly alone. "So, now you have what you came for. Happy?"

The longest pause in recent memory occurred then, and it wasn't the first time that he'd absently reached for the flask that was no longer there, rubbing his hand against his thigh instead. He wasn't accustomed to dealing with these things sober, and hell if he knew whether he'd ever get used to walking without that crutch.

Cassandra plunked down beside him, slumping as she leaned forward over her legs and gripped her knees for support. He resisted the urge to rub her back tenderly, closing his eyes and grounding himself in the here and now. Those stolen moments between them were gone forever, and for the thousandth time, he let the blame fall squarely on his shoulders. It was easy to pretend life was normal when she wasn't sitting next to him with glowing, inhuman eyes and paper-thin skin, the literal bane of his existence for the past decade pulsing through the dark veins of someone he still loved beyond measure, but could no longer bear to hold without fear of hurting her again.

She stirred uncomfortably and took a slow breath. "The reasons behind my attack don't concern me greatly. In a way, I brought this on myself." When he looked up, she held up a hand, urging him to keep silent until she finished speaking. "I don't know if you're aware that… they had planned to cut my throat, but they were so infuriated that I had killed so many of their men. They deviated from the plan and instead forced me to drink before tying me up and weighing me down to drown me." Sighing, she shrugged off the horrific memories, dismissing them from her mind. "But that is not why I rode all this way, Varric. I'm not interested in why you ended our relationship. Your reasons are your own, whether I agree with them or not… I just wanted to know why you left me… in _Skyhold._ "

"…Oh." Leave it to him to confess to something the Seeker hadn't asked. Awkward didn't even begin to describe what was washing over him, feeling his cheeks flush and thankful for the darkness which hid it. "Well, this is embarrassing… Listen, you're sick and I didn't want to –"

Cassandra scoffed in disgust. " _Ugh,_ _Maker,_ I'm _fine!_ " She must have been tired of people reminding her of her health, because the sudden anger that emanated from her made her veins bulge as she stood up and walked back to where the chest plate rested."They said I was faring well!"

He shook his head in dismay, her mannerisms contradicting everything she had insisted about herself. "You're not, Seeker. Andraste's sake, _look_ at yourself," he raised a hand, indicating her intense body language. "The red lyrium is driving you crazy, and you can't even see it!"

She made a guttural grunt deep in her throat. " _You_ thought you were trapped in the fucking _Fade_ , and you have the nerve to call _me_ mad?! How dare you, you spineless little shit!"

"That's not so crazy to believe if it's happened to me before! Hell, you shouldn't even _be here!_ What else was I supposed to think?! I couldn't have predicted you were going to race out after me like some psycho ex-girlfriend!" Varric doubted she was even listening anymore as he let loose on her, the woman growling with rage as she picked up her chest plate and threw it full-force at him.

He pressed himself to the bench seat, the steel crashing into the hedge behind him and lodging deep behind the rustling leaves. "You think I haven't _noticed_ the tricks my mind is playing on me?!" She roared, "You left me before my suffering _truly_ began! I have dealt with it _entirely_ on my own since you walked out on me! Don't fucking tell me I'm insane; _you're insane!_ "

Worried that this was getting out of hand, he immediately set his feet to the cut grass and crossed over to her, pinning her arms to her sides firmly in a tight embrace. Cassandra was hot to the touch, a raging furnace against him, and she was fire itself as she shoved him off, but he instantly wrapped himself around her again, desperate to soothe her. She kicked and threw her weight, resisting the obvious restraint he was placing on her, his thoughts racing all the while on what he should do next.

"It's _my life_ on the line," she growled like an animal as he listened to the strains of her thundering heart. Flashbacks popped to mind of Hawke and himself dealing with Justice on one of Anders' worst days back in Kirkwall, and the comparison made him shiver. "You should _fucking_ know better than to assume I'd take my _fucking_ death lying down!"

"Calm down, baby," he whispered, his gruff voice quivering while he side-stepped another knee and gripped his joined hands harder at her back.

"Don't _tell me_ to calm down – _I am calm!_ "

In horror, Varric realised that he could hear distant voices in his head, and they weren't the usual ones of characters or conscience. They were the same ones he'd heard haunting Bartrand's home in Hightown, the same hissing whispers he felt echoing in his skull whenever he approached a vein to destroy it.

And now they were residing in her, constantly grating on every thread of hope she still had. Was it any wonder she was losing her grip on sanity?

As she slowly relaxed in his arms, the tremors eventually died down, and along with the loss of the voices came the loss of her ability to stand. She went slack, and he gently coaxed her down to her knees, allowing the Seeker to rest her head on his shoulder as she shivered in the cold.

"All right, I admit: I'm not calm," she confessed needlessly through a sob. Sitting back on her heels, Cassandra gripped her hair in turmoil, the moonlight exposing her lyrium sickness and highlighting every terrifying trace of the poison in her blood. "I'm so… _enraged,_ I could _kill._ There is _hate_ in my bones for a hundred-thousand things… For what happened, for you and every person who tries to coddle me, for the way I now question if I'm strong enough to defeat this, even for the way my quarters are arranged and the damned _holes_ in my ceiling…"

Though she had been feigning wellness on the surface, the suffering she revealed to him nearly moved the dwarf to find Hero and bash his face in for bringing her all the way out here in her current state. But knowing her, she was hiding the depths of her pain from everyone, and only broke in front of him because of their intimate connection.

Or, at least, the connection they'd once shared before he had severed it.

Varric was lost. There was nothing he could say or do to correct the course Cassandra was on, the course he'd inadvertently set for her. Had he never kissed her by the river in the Emerald Graves, had he never written another word of that damned story for her, she wouldn't be staring at him now with those burning coals in her lovely face, the skin around her eyes so dark that it looked horribly bruised in this light.

Confronted once more with what he had done by simply loving her, he backed away from her, head shaking without conscious thought. "I'm sorry," he whispered, running a hand over his face as he turned and started back for the back doors of Vivienne's cheateau.

"Go ahead, walk away," she called bitterly from behind him. "You excel at that, _Varric_. Particularly when I need you most."

Incensed, he froze in place, fists curling at his sides. "You know what?" He muttered, his jaw clenching until his teeth were sore. Making his mind up, he stormed back over to her, ignoring the way she stiffened for a fight, and grabbed her, pulling her in.

His body ached as he explored her mouth with his, the intensity of their separation bursting in their stolen moment in the garden. For a time, she held him so fervently that he could scarcely breathe, but he returned the favour, pressing her to him with one arm and gripping her braid with the other. Varric felt the tears come, tasted her own, enveloping them both in the bitter sadness of their mutual loss.

The kisses slowed, yet they held firm, and he resisted the impulse to pull away, the heat of her body practically searing his flesh. He brushed his lips against hers, felt her shiver, and brought his hands up to cup her flushed cheeks. "You think I wanted to let you go? I'd give away Bianca in a _heartbeat_ if it meant I'd win you back, but it's my fault you're dying…" Swallowing around the mournful ache in his throat, he asked, "Knowing that, how could you still _want_ me?"

Her breath came out in a ragged sigh, and she moved a hand to his naked shoulder, kneading at it as she bit her lip in uncertainty. "I don't know… I've been spiralling out of control ever since I nearly drowned. Everyone has dictated what I should do, where I should go, and coming here was the first choice I've been allowed to make in ages." She shook helplessly, admitting, "I would appreciate having a say in what happens to me."

His eyes softened toward her, heart racing within him as he tried to breathe. "All right… You came all this way, and you've more than earned the right to give the final answer." Preparing himself, he straightened and met her eyes, not wanting to sway her decision either way. "Yes… or no?"

Cassandra took a shallow breath, hesitating far too long for comfort. Her eyes darting back and forth, he could feel her pulse quicken beneath her skin, and his brow furrowed in response, concerned that he'd put far too much pressure on her without notice.

"…No."

Varric felt her words like a battlehammer to the chest and reeled, the wind knocked out of him. His hands fell from her face, distraught and crumbling before her. He'd tried not to have that reaction, but it was too much to take all at once.

"I mean – no, as in I can't decide," she suddenly clarified, hands trembling as she covered her mouth and fought against the tears welling behind her shining eyes. "M-my mind is… not truly my own. I know I said that I wanted to make the choice myself, but I… need time to consider. Please understand…" Cassandra cast her eyes down, crossing her arms over her abdomen and hugging her elbows weakly. "I'm just… terribly confused, right now."

Closing his eyes, Varric forced himself to nod, the wound of her sudden, unintentional rejection ripping open a wound too wide to close right away. It was then that he realised the pain he'd caused her when he had returned from the war room, and every regret, every sorrow was amplified with heart-wrenching clarity.

"For now, Varric, your friendship would be… I-I'd be grateful for it."

His eyes fluttered open at that, and though it hurt to have only friendship for the time being, it was a hell of a lot better than nothing at all… "Sure," he whispered, throwing her possibly the saddest smirk he'd ever emoted. "There's no rush, Seeker. Let's just… focus on getting that shit out of your blood." Seeing the pure relief on her face, the smile that touched his lips then felt sincerer, and he reached up with a hand to stroke a thumb over the darkened scar on her cheek down to her jaw.

"You look like dog shit," he nudged her in half-hearted playfulness. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I don't remember," she admitted tiredly, watching as exhaustion rolled over her at mention of sleep. "The screaming, the nightmares – they don't make it easy for me."

Biting his lip pensively, his brows drew together, wondering whether his next suggestion would be shot down outright. "If it's not too… well, painful for you, I could… hold you while you try," he offered sincerely. "Just like old times."

Tearing up, he saw her smile slightly as she gave the barest of nods.

Maker, he hadn't seen a sight that sweet in all his life.

Varric wiped away her tears and took her hand, helping Cassandra rise to her unsteady feet. "Come to bed, Seeker," he muttered solemnly, leading the stubborn warrior to his chambers.

**~oOo~**

Tomorrow was going to be rough…

They'd fallen in and out of slumber after she'd changed into one of Vivienne's spare white silk dressing gowns, initially sleeping with a full metre between them on the massive bed, but as the night drew on, the distance between them began to close. At first, merely their fingertips had touched, Varric the first to reach across the gold satin and brave the chance of her pulling away. Minutes passed that way, her eyes closed as her head rested on the pillow, and he stroked her fingers in the dark, waiting for her to accept the tenderness of his soft touch. The ache in his soul had altered from what it had been at the start of the evening, morphing from the guilt of letting her go to what it was now, an unrelenting desire to tear the poison from her and claim her all for himself. He hated the idea of sharing her body with the evil plaguing her. Slowly, his forefinger traced knuckle and bone, spelling out words on her hand that he couldn't bring himself to say aloud: _I miss you… Don't worry… I won't give up… Stay with me… Still love you…_

A trembling in her hand had begun to take hold, making him pause as he felt the vibration through the mattress. She shivered and quaked in her sleep, her steady breathing growing more laboured and desperate. At once, he leaned up and took her hand, and she gripped it with such ferocity that he believed it would break if she squeezed any harder. Draping an arm over her, he sheltered Cassandra with his body, wishing there was more he could do as she began to groan in agony. He could hear her teeth grinding, feel her heart pounding, helpless to her suffering when the whispers returned, to his utter dismay.

She'd suffered alone with this, but no more. Never again would he leave her to ride out the pain on her own.

She gasped and lurched, muscles seizing as some sort of surge overwhelmed her, and she cried out, the whimper catching on another swift intake of breath. Before he could ask if she needed Vivienne to come to their chambers to try healing her, she threw her arms around him and held on as if she were dangling from the edge of a cliff. Surprised, Varric rubbed her back and ignored the blazing heat coming off her in waves, blowing cool air over her to chill the beads of sweat on her forehead.

Cassandra opened her eyes, and his heart shrunk a thousand times as her glowing red eyes pierced the dark. Feeling blindly for him, she shivered and reached for his loose hair, gripping and pulling to the point where he felt like he was being scalped, but he let her hold it, disregarding his pain in lieu of her own.

It lasted only a handful of minutes, but waiting for the surge to die felt like hours, Varric counting the seconds as they passed by in the chaos. And when her amulet lit up the dark and the whispers were silenced, she collapsed and shook, too weak to pull the satin coverlet over her shoulder. Helping her, he brought her close and enveloped them in warmth and comfort, shutting away the outside world as he pulled the covers over their heads. The Seeker held him in return, too weakened to say or do anything more than blink her thanks. Mercifully, the demonic glow of her eyes faded to black once more, and he kissed her forehead in gratitude that it was over… for now.

But after a long while, her hands began to knead at his flesh, pushing and pulling, her fingers running through his chest hair, heart racing anew.

"Seeker," he whispered between the sheets, "you should… You should probably stop that…"

"…Why?" She asked him, quick and breathless as she pressed herself against him.

He felt every curve of her, dizziness hitting him when his blood drained from his head and moved southbound. "'Cause, um…" There was a reason. He knew there was a good one, or he wouldn't have suggested she cease what she was doing to him. But it escaped him entirely now. "Wha – uh… What are you…?"

"I feel either immense pain, horrible feebleness, crippling rage, or nothing at all. I am numb to all else," she told him quietly, her lips brushing over his face in search of his own. "If anyone can help me know pleasure again, it's you…" Finding her way to his mouth, Cassandra pressed hers to him, robbing the very breath from his lungs.

Stunned, he turned to lay flat on the bed, his hand holding his head as he hesitated to comply. "But… What about the break? I thought…"

"We're still on one. If that is still all right…"

"Yeah, I guess, but… Baby, you need to heal –"

"As do you," she whispered, crawling to his side and kissing his neck. Throwing a leg over him, she struggled to pull herself on, and to his shock, he actually helped her to a sitting position over him. "I've been so frail… Will you help me recover my strength?"

 _Oh, Maker, why are You doing this to me?_ Varric was the one trembling now, worried like mad that she would accuse him of taking advantage of her in the morning. The very last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. "…The Iron Lady won't appreciate you messing up her silks," he tried for sarcasm, but ended up caught between nervousness and desire instead.

Given what he'd said, the dwarf really should have seen it coming when she took the bottom hem and pulled it over her head, tossing it without a care to the rug. Lowering her hands again, she pulled the drawstring and untied it easily, the loose-fitting garment unable to contain his obvious enthusiasm. Cassandra was persistent… and apparently conscious of everything she did, moving lower on the bed to bring him completely to attention. "Just for tonight, Varric… let us pretend it never happened…"

Everything she did to him after that was a blur of ecstasy, tugging at flat sheets, bending knees, resting hands on her hair, throwing his head back… The magic of her touch brought him to total surrender, and he could waste no more time. Leaning up, he moved her bodily and pinned the Seeker against the headboard, pressing against her to hold her steady.

"Hold on," he groaned, pausing for her to wrap her arms securely around him, and not hesitating another second lest rationality to take over, he planted a hand on her backside and plunged deep.

The first thing he noticed was her moan, which sounded from her throat louder than he'd ever made a woman cry out in his life. There was a chance they'd wake the help at this rate, but damn it, let them hear her. The second thing was just how intense the fire was inside, and he wouldn't have been surprised if he was now fused to her permanently. Hell, he could only hope he was.

Though their eyes had adjusted to the darkness around them, they felt with their bodies instead, hands exploring, lips caressing, hearts hammering in unison to each and every thrust until all the world fell away. No poor judgement, no corrosion of flesh, no unwarranted opinions or unsolicited advice… Just Varric and Cassandra, the Merchant Prince and his Nevarran Princess, healing the hurts and suturing the sorrows with touch and taste alone.

She brought the house down with her cries, their lovemaking migrating from one end of the bed to the other indiscriminately, tangled in a dazzling array of sheets and limbs. And when at last she announced the emergence of her greatest pleasure, he followed in kind, sealing their sacrilege with his seed.

An hour had passed, Cassandra now curled against him on the bed. Whether he'd helped her drift off at long last in peace, he couldn't say, but no surges returned for the remainder of the night. Forcing his lids open just one more time before exhaustion claimed him, he looked out the expansive window on the second floor of Duke Bastien de Ghislain's summer chateau, and prayed the sun would hold off until he was ready to face the day.

Yes, tomorrow was going to be rough…

But tonight, with her in his arms sleeping soundly against his chest, tomorrow could wait…


	27. People Don't Recover So Easily

They say love is eternal. So, who's "they", one might ask? Well, _bards_ , most likely, other storytellers, or women of the cloth. People who either get paid to write that kind of schlock or just aren't old and jaded enough yet to have been convinced otherwise.

Love is… _complicated_. Complicated as _hell._

Even if it's straightforward and honest between two consenting adults, love is pretty much a jumbled mess of emotions made up of their most critical components, all strung together to form one simple, monosyllabic word that's easy to convey to another living person quickly and efficiently. But a lone guy in a tavern could drunkenly confess to his fellow strangers, " _I love Martha_ ", and it's a time-honoured guarantee that everyone in that dive would without a doubt come away with their own idea of what he was proclaiming in his blurry-eyed stupor. Is Martha his wife? His mother? His best friend? His dog? His attorney? His wife's mother's best friend's dog's attorney? In all those contexts, the meaning of the word alters and shifts to fit the proper narrative. Words are a precious commodity, and language is a business constantly changing with the times to best sell its wide range of products to the public.

Sure, it's _possible_ to love blindly, to not find faults, flaws, or even glaring personal failings. It's also possible to love _despite_ all those things, to overlook the bad and place the good high on a pedestal. And it's sure as hell possible to love the flaws _themselves_ , encapsulating every aspect into a beautiful yet imperfect work of art, and still choose to proudly hang it over the mantle on full display so it can be admired. What's more, it's certainly possible to take that love and invest it somewhere else, to give it to someone or something more deserving of time and attention.

Be honest, though: Love is an asshole. It makes people say and do any variety of dumb shit they wouldn't normally partake in. It gets all the hopes up and clouds the mind of rational thought. It excuses missteps that would be giant red flags in hindsight. It leaves without giving an idea of when it will come back and then… just _doesn't_. And then the bereft fool goes to open their wallet only to find it took off with the rent and grocery money, and well, then they're just screwed, aren't they?

Love has _literally started wars –_ where people _died_ by the _thousands._ Try wrapping your mind around that. It's _insane._

But love has also ended wars.

See? Complicated.

Maybe love… is more of an understanding. Speak its name to the subject of those emotions and watch love smile back in gratitude and reciprocation in real time. Or never utter the word once, only to discover it's taken and given back freely, regardless of whether it's ever openly acknowledged between two hopeless schmucks...

Love is born, grown, strengthened, nurtured, fed, raised up, let down, held tight, cut loose. A heavy burden to some, and a lightener of loads to others. It may die in the hands of one, but its spirit floats on and finds a new home in another, beginning the cycle again to either please or plague the next bearer. It breathes new life in whomever it touches, living forever simply because there'll always be someone to give it good enough reason to keep going.

Okay, so maybe love really is eternal, just not in the way the phrase so commonly rolls off the tongue.

And maybe, despite the cliché it had become, "they" had been right all along.

…Those smug bastards.

**~oOo~**

Madame Vivienne parted her velvet curtains and unlatched the balcony doors with one graceful flick of her finger, pulling them open to allow the morning air to spill through her grand master suite. The country air was always remarkably refreshing, the fragrances of nature flooding her senses and revitalising both spirit and mind as she stepped out beneath the low-hanging valance in Bastien's finest silk robe openly draped over her favourite nightgown, nursing her morning black coffee in a delicate cup from the chateau's best porcelain. Her face was fresh, hair neatly combed, eyes bright and mind eager to address the College of Clerics in just a few short hours.

From her view on the second floor, the sun peeked through the boughs of the trees, the warmth of the rays reaching down to caress her face. The First Enchanter breathed deeply from the steam of her cup, closing her eyes before letting out a small sigh… followed by an ache in her heart.

"…Oh, Bastien," she whispered, reaching her hand up to touch her shoulder. She knew his hand wouldn't be there, would never find its way home on her skin again, but she had yearned for it all the same. "You are deeply missed, my darling…"

This was the first time Vivienne had been back to their summer home since his passing several months earlier, and though it was wonderful to reminisce on the beautiful life they'd once shared together, time going on without him did not break her heart any less.

As she took a cautious sip of the hot, bitter coffee, she looked to her right absently, wondering if she had time to make a social call to Duchess Nicoline before resuming their travels. Of course there was always time for such graces, but that depended heavily on whether the Duchess was also residing in her home away from home presently. It might do her wonders to call on Bastien's son, the newly-titled Duke Laurent of Ghislain, if the Council of Heralds hadn't yet consumed him, and no doubt she'd soon see his sister, Marcelline, when she addressed the Grand Clerics. Upon taking another deep breath and patting her shoulder, just as she'd done when Bastien's hand had rested there on countless mornings like these, the enchantress reworked her features to present the world with her usual strength and confidence, graciously compartmentalising her bittersweet memories and placing them aside for now.

Wild robins and blue tits tweeted and chirped their morning songs, exchanging the latest forest gossip, or remarking on the lack of tantalising worms on offer in the soil today, as she imagined all denizens of Orlais shared a hivemind on class and culture, no matter their origins. Even she, a highborn woman of Ostwick, had acclimated herself to the Orlesian way of life not long after falling in love with her adopted empire. It was easy to adapt, especially given their love for novelty and scandal, of which Vivienne had in droves.

Another bird joined the chorus, its cawing disturbing the ebb and flow of her morning routine. Frowning, she watched with mild surprise as a large black raven flew to her balcony and perched aside her on the gold railing, the red-eyed monstrosity meeting her gaze in profile and hopping toward her.

Catching on right away, Madam de Fer strolled back through the balcony doors and found a plain digestive biscuit on her silverite coffee tray. She set down her cup and broke it in half, wrapping the piece in a napkin and squeezing it gently into large crumbs before walking back to her place beside the messenger, holding out the reward to this intelligent beast. He accepted and ate – well, ravenously, though who could have possibly expected anything to the contrary? As the raven picked through the crumbs, she opened the oiled leather satchel attached to his clawed foot and retrieved the parchment folded inside, breaking the familiar red seal to read the message:

_Madame Vivienne,_

_In assuming the role of your new Left Hand, I've rerouted my most discreet scout to the City. Should you desire to arrange an accident for B, stroke your neck from chin to collarbone and examine your left fingernails. She will know what this means. We are ever in your services, Most Holy. -SL._

_Postscript: Please tell me those two mindless fools made it to you, or I will send out a search party of dragons to rip them to shreds myself._

Madam de Fer smirked at that, setting the napkin on the floor of the balcony and going to her writing bureau for a clean parchment, even though Leliana had left enough space to reply under her own message. Uncorking her sea glass inkwell and sitting down on the padded bench, she dipped her swan quill in the black liquid and neatly wrote out her response:

 _My Dearest_ _Nightingale_ ,

_Your initiative and diligence are as always unparalleled, but in this instance, I'm afraid I've no need for such action. Trust that I have a plan for our meddlesome Ms. Davri. I assure you, she shan't trouble us again. However, it is quite heartening to know I have your subtle services at my disposal. -Mme. V._

_Postscript: I am indeed surrounded by fools, and was joined by yet more, mere hours ago. They are coming for me in waves, darling. Do spare a prayer for my patience. The Maker knows I do not suffer fools gladly._

Smiling to herself in satisfaction, she set her quill aside to dry on its stand and sealed the ink by picking up the message and blowing a light frost spell over it to help the words absorb fully on the parchment. Once it was safe to do so, she gently folded her message and glided over her rug to the balcony, finding the crumbs gone and the raven quenching its thirst in the bird bath near her flowerbed below. Upon spotting her return, the messenger took flight and rose to the railing once more, cawing as his claws tapped at the metal bar on his way over. Meeting him halfway, Vivienne placed her parchment in the tiny satchel and stroked the black feathers over his back.

" _Home_ ," she told him firmly, and watched as he flew east to deliver her response with haste. Pleased with herself, she crossed back to the table and retrieved her coffee, taking a sip before determining it had gone cold and adding a splash of hot water from her rose kettle.

A small knock on the bedroom door rang out, followed closely by her elven handmaiden opening it and making her way inside through the small crack she made. "My lady," she curtsied respectfully, "breakfast has been prepared for yourself and your guests."

"Ah, splendid, Marie," she nodded once in affirmation. "Have it served in the rear conservatory. Such lovely weather for it, I find, don't you?"

"Yes, my lady. Very good, my lady," Marie curtsied again, summarily dismissing herself.

"Also," Vivienne ordered just before she slinked away to carry this out, "be a dear and fetch one of our masks for the man who arrived last night. Present it to him at the table, if you will."

"Y-yes. As you wish, my lady," she replied meekly, exiting and closing the bedroom door in her small wake.

And with that, Madam de Fer finished her coffee in peace, all the while dressing to impress for the day ahead.

**~oOo~**

They sat down in their chairs under the bright morning light flooding through the conservatory windows, the Iron Lady taking the head nearest him while the opposite end was left vacant, yet still set as if expecting someone else to join them at any moment. Beverages were brought out first: citrus juices of three varieties, tea, coffee, and spring water. Once they had filled their cups with a drink of their choice, the silverite trays were brought out, domed lids lifted to reveal their splendour.

"This is _breakfast?_ No sausages? Bacon? Where's all the eggs?"

Varric couldn't help himself from asking this time, his stomach empty and rumbling within him after the silverite trays were presented on the pure white tablecloth before him. The help took no notice of his grumblings, affecting deafness to his pleas for something more substantial. At his left, Sera reached instantly for a _Pain au chocolat_ and shoved the pastry in her mouth without complaint, her hands moving swiftly over the other trays as she gathered a pile rivalling the Frostback Mountains in altitude.

Having heard his pained cries for fat and grease, Vivienne shot him a dubious glance. "You're in _Orlais_ , darling. One carries their breakfast with them for the remainder of the day. Best not to weigh oneself down so early, yes?" He nodded at this reluctantly, reaching forward for a slice of bread and jam when she turned her eyes to Dorian at her other side. "Out of curiosity, my dear, what food and drink don a breakfast table in Tevinter?"

The altus sliced a croissant in half with his butter knife and shrugged. "On a typical day? Surely nothing you wouldn't _expect_ us to consume, Vivienne: the raw flesh of a powerless serf, scrambled monkey brains, and a hot cup of sacrificial blood to wash it all down." He sighed longingly, adding a drop of milk to his tea. "Ah, I can taste it now! Don't make me wax nostalgic, dear; you'll ruin my eyeliner."

The mockery was abundant this morning. "Indeed," she replied flatly, adding fruit to her own plate as a manservant brought out a sweet-smelling cappuccino for her.

Dagna turned in her seat at Sera's other side on the opposite end of the table to face the Tevinter. "What do monkey brains taste like?"

"Unsurprisingly, like chicken." Dorian smirked her way, glancing to Cassandra, who sat silently beside him, to share in the jest. The Seeker, however, paid no attention as she stared at her empty plate. Still quite amused with himself, the mage smiled charmingly at the dwarven woman. "And why did _that_ particular food pique your interest? Not curious about the other two?"

"Nah," she said through a mouthful of honeyed Orlesian bread, "I'm pretty sure you're making those up." Across from her, Blackwall snorted in mirth and bit into a slice of bread topped with berry preserves. "At least I _hope_ you are."

"Ah, I see your keen sarcasm detector hasn't failed you today." Sipping his tea, Dorian dropped his teasing and decided to tell the truth. "If you're _actually_ interested, skinless grapes are a staple. Not seedless - _skinless._ No meal is complete without grapes in one form or another. Our teas are highly prized – which I still take regularly with the Inquisitor on our mornings in Skyhold." Pursing his lips beneath his moustache, he added as an afterthought, "Although, I can't say with all certainty that brains didn't feature prominently. I never _did_ gain the courage to ask Father what that odd-smelling spread on his flatbread was."

Polite laughter echoed over the table at that, Varric using the moment to take a generous bite of his sweet roll.

" _Enough_."

Cassandra had said it under her breath, but the pause in conversation had highlighted her intensity for all, causing them to pause and turn their attention toward her. She was staring down at her unspoiled plate, seemingly locked in on her own thoughts. Concerned, Varric shot a glance toward Vivienne and Dorian, who were in turn looking at him for clarification. He shrugged, silently communicating that he had no idea what that was about.

Sparkler shook his head and tried to recover the lost mood. "Forgive me, Cassandra. I didn't mean to upset your appetite."

In confusion, the Seeker looked up as if hearing his voice for the first time. "What?"

Waving a dismissive hand, Dorian set about gathering nibbles for her empty plate. "Andraste's sake, woman, _eat_ something! I look like a bloody glutton sitting next to you," he encouraged her, fetching a croissant and a few pieces of fruit to start.

An elven servant came through the door just then with something in hand, walking with purpose to the vacant end of the table. "Beg your pardon for disturbing you, ser," she spoke in a clear, even tone to Blackwall. "My lady wishes you to have this." She held out the item for him to take, and after setting down his bread and wiping his mouth, Hero gently took the proffered cloth from her, the handmaiden curtsying for Madam de Fer. "Will that be all, my lady?"

"Yes, my dear Marie, that will do for now. Thank you ever so kindly," she nodded in dismissal, sipping from her cup delicately as the elf departed.

"What's this, then?" Blackwall set it in his lap and unfolded the cloth, picking up the item for all to see.

" _That_ , Blackwall, is a _loan_." Vivienne straightened slightly, her face fixed in an emotionless stare. "Consider this a small mercy."

He examined the silverite plate inlaid with iridescent opals in his grasp, placing it fully over his face. It fit like a glove. "A mask?"

"How exquisitely observant of you, darling," she arched a brow his way. Dabbing the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin, she explained, "It once belonged to my dearly departed Bastien in his youth, and bears the markings of his noble house. It _had_ occurred to me that you might not wish to show your dour face in public. I tend to garner attention wherever I go, and therefore so would you, if accompanying me on my outings today. This should protect you, and ourselves by extension, from needless violent confrontations."

Blackwall glanced at the empty chair to his right, where the former owner of the mask would have been seated had he not sadly succumbed to illness some time ago. "Oh, right," he mumbled, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Uh… Thanks."

"Was I wrong to assume you wouldn't care to show your face in the city?" She asked, raising her chin slightly. "Given all that transpired here on your last visit, I had thought you would –"

"Oh, no," Blackwall interrupted, bowing his head a touch in gratitude and setting the mask aside for the moment. "It's a clever idea. I just… Well, if I'm honest, I didn't really expect any help from you in that regard. I was just going to wear my helmet, but now that I think about it, it doesn't really cover the face, so, em…" He was shifting uncomfortably under her gaze, though she seemed to enjoy watching the man squirm. "I appreciate it. Thank you."

"Not at all, Blackwall," she smiled with full, closed lips. "I aim to be a gracious host, and personally see to the needs of my guests, be they invited or… _unannounced_." She took a bite of her _Pain au chocolat_ and looked away, effectively ending that line of conversation.

Dumbfounded, Blackwall took a deep breath and retrieved the bread from his plate, raising his brows. " _So_ ," his voice boomed, ready to resume the discussion, "Sera, what would they be serving in Denerim right about now?"

The elf's nose twitched. " _Pfft_. Don't remember much from then, but I used to pass the bakers and drool all down my shirt. Learnt to make my own stuff after that. Now _I_ make people's shirts drooly." She shoved a slice of bread in her mouth and stuffed it into her cheek, clearly not wanting to speak more on her past and raising her brows toward Varric.

He caught her unspoken request to be bailed out and leaned against the back of his chair, waving a hand to sway the table's attention his way. "We had the typical bacon, eggs, and toast back in Kirkwall; basically, whatever would sit in your stomach for the rest of the day. Lunch wasn't a guarantee, unless we were visiting mom – uh, Leandra, I mean… If we were strapped for time or heading out on another adventure, we'd usually stick it in a roll and take it with us. Or grab something baked into a puff pastry." Out of curiosity for what other dwarves ate for breakfast, he looked down the table. "What did you have back in Orzammar?"

"Well, not _rocks_ , but they might as well have been," Dagna chuckled at her own joke. "I don't –"

" _No, you won't._ "

That was the second time Cassandra had piped up ominously out of nowhere. Motion around the table came to an awkward standstill as everyone turned to her yet again, and it was then that Varric noticed she hadn't even touched the food on her plate. She was intense, the air around her practically sizzling with energy, the Seeker boring a hole through her place setting as she stared with ferociousness. _Who the hell is she talking to?_

Wary, Varric straightened slowly and leaned forward. "…Seeker?"

" _What?_ " She bit curtly as though he'd interrupted something important, glaring over at him with bright red eyes.

Gulping hard, he reached for his glass of juice and sipped at it casually, trying to keep it civil for now. "Uh… Everything okay?"

After a moment more of glowering, Cassandra shook her head as if attempting to dispel something. "Why do you _insist_ on harassing me about every little thing? I'm _fine_." When she looked down and picked up a fork to move the food around her plate, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. There she went again, pretending she was alright in the face of all evidence to the contrary.

Braving the uncomfortable atmosphere around the table, Dagna brought the topic to the forefront again. "Well… I mean, I don't really remember anything special about the food in Orzammar, but every morning, there'd at least be red wine and –"

"For the love of the _Maker_ , Vivienne," the Seeker blurted angrily, losing all patience with her surroundings, "tell them to _stop_ playing that _horrible music!_ It's _raking_ the inside of my skull!"

Madam de Fer's eyes went wide at that, setting her hot cup down and placing her hands with care on her lap. "Cassandra dear, though I do quite well for myself, I don't employ an in-house string quartet." Worry etching itself between her brows, the Iron Lady gently asked her, "To what music are you referring?"

"How can you not _hear_ that?!" The fiery warrior was incredulous, scoffing at the ridiculousness of the notion that she was imagining it all. "It's so _shrill_ and…"

But as her statement trailed away upon glancing up at all the confused stares around her, Cassandra seemed to realise the truth: there wasn't a sound to be heard. At least not by them.

Strangely, this only seemed to infuriate her all the more. With unnecessary amounts of frustration, she brought her fork back toward her plate –

And to his horror, Varric spotted an unmistakable red aura emanating from her hand.

She must have caught the same thing, for without warning, she stabbed her fork down into the table, scooting her chair back noisily while examining her palms. Tense seconds ticked by, his stomach sinking within him as he stared at her while she panted for breath like she was in the heat of a great battle. Grappling with the gravity of what she saw there, Cassandra was silent for a long moment, able to do nothing more than stare at the toxic waves wafting from her sickly form.

"Maker's Breath," Dorian whispered, covering his mouth with a hand. Reaching toward her, he offered, "Hold still. Let me see if I can –"

"Don't _touch_ me!" Rising from her seat, she backed away in a panic, evidently horrified at the prospect of her affliction somehow spreading to the others.

When Blackwall instinctively stood up to help, Varric wanted to follow suit, but he was paralysed on the spot. Jaws hung slack, chewing ceased, and they all collectively held their breath, none of them sure of what to do.

Unsure herself, Cassandra slowly shook her head and gathered her wits about her, closing her eyes in a vain attempt to hold the secret of the lyrium behind her blackened lids. "Excuse me," she mumbled lamely, moving swiftly for the Orlesian doors and exiting in a rush out into the garden.

His appetite now thoroughly gone, Varric shakily rose to his feet and gestured for Blackwall to sit down. "If I'm not back in five minutes," he told them, "come help." Without another word, he turned from the table and raced out after her in hot pursuit.

**~oOo~**

_We endure…_

_We wait…_

_We have found the dreams again…_

_We will awaken…_

The voices were becoming clearer by the day, hounding every movement, corrupting every thought, and it was progressively more difficult to ignore. The words had been on a constant loop in the recesses of her mind, chanting along with that awful song, but each repetition grew stronger, louder, harsher, more menacing. Still, it was nothing compared to the agony she was in.

An ordinary fever was painful enough, the body using all energy to produce an intense heat in order to create a hostile environment for foreign invaders. Fevers, like minds, eventually broke, but this burning had no foreseeable end, the invader it fought seeming to thrive off her body's desperate fight, sucking the power directly from every act she subconsciously underwent to counter its effects. A fire blazed inside her, and she wondered, not for the first time, which asset most precious to her would be consumed first: her sanity, or her strength.

Though she had come outside to feel the breeze over her skin and cool down, the Seeker was now apparently searching for something she'd left behind. She tried for all she was worth to remember what it was, but like everything else it eluded her, though she knew it was important to her. An inescapable sensation of vulnerability had overwhelmed her, and instinct told her there was something in this garden that would protect her somehow.

_Cassandra?_

She ignored the voice. It had called her by name before, but so long as she refused to respond to it, the lyrium would lose interest – or so she had put faith in that theory. Truly, all she had left was faith.

This was where she had been standing, she realised as she came to a sudden stop near the end of the gardens. There were soft pink blossoms on the hedges now that weren't apparent under the moonlight, but this was surely the spot. "Where is it?" She asked herself. _What is it?_ She thought, still unable to place exactly what she had left behind.

_Where's what? Here, sit down._

" _Don't feign concern for me,_ " she growled at the voice, irate that the evil in her veins was attempting to lure her into a false sense of security. A new tactic from the red lyrium. She would need to be wary in the future.

 _No one's feigning anything,_ it said reassuringly. _Can you at least turn around and let me look at you?_

 _Turn around?_ Why would it want her to do that? Wasn't it _inside_ her? Wary of any tricks, she only glanced over her shoulder, but that was enough to startle her. Someone _was_ standing just behind her. A demon. A darkspawn. A twisted creature that the red lyrium had manifested in her mind to give itself form. Deeply disturbed, she closed her eyes and fought her panicking heart.

_Seeker, it's just me…_

Maker, the voice was evil itself, dark and terrible, like an echo heard in the darkest depths of the Deep Roads that had no living source. And yet… the tone, the gentle comfort, the inflection… They were all so familiar.

Setting her jaw in determination, she forced herself to confront the figure and bravely turned around.

Only to find it had disappeared.

A rustling in the bushes sounded to her right, and she swirled to investigate. Someone was half-buried in the trimmed hedge, parting thick branches while scouring in the brush. " _Got it_ ," the figure groaned, pulling himself free.

Cassandra let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd held, her eyes wide upon seeing Varric's face, his hair sporadically riddled with sticks and leaves. "It's _you_ … I had thought that…"

He yanked his arm out of the hedge at last, whacking the top of the bench with her chest plate and checking to see he hadn't scarred the wood there. Relieved that all was well, he sighed. "Looking for this?" He smirked, hoisting it up for her inspection.

Nodding dumbly, she wiped the perspiration from her hairline and mentally pushed herself forward, taking the armour from his outstretched hand. Clutching it to her body, the Seeker looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. She didn't recognise it, but it must have been what she had come looking for. Unable to bear the noise incessantly bombarding her, she sat down beside the dwarf, fiddling with the straps and clasps. By the Maker, she couldn't remember how in the world to put it on.

Somewhere at the back of her mind, she registered that he'd spoken some time ago. "What?"

He looked at her then, clearly concerned for her. "I said, 'you're welcome.'"

She glanced at him in total misunderstanding. "For what?"

Raising a disbelieving ginger brow at her, he sighed heavily and tried to physically wipe the apprehension from his face with a hand. "…Never mind." Taking a deep breath, he reached out toward her in support, and instantly Cassandra flinched away. She didn't know why – the song was clouding her memory in a thick fog – but everything in her screamed that she not be touched for whatever reason.

Varric gave up at seeing her discomfort and cast his eyes down. "Not gonna lie," he admitted shakily, lacing his fingers together over his lap, "I'm starting to freak out a little, Seeker. One minute everything's calm, the next it's like nothing you say makes any –"

"I need to speak with you regarding what happened between us last night," she blurted suddenly, barely able to believe she'd uttered those words.

He paused in surprise at her firmness and turned to look toward the estate for a moment. Clearly satisfied that they were alone, he shifted his body to face her and lowered his voice. "I think we have bigger concerns at this point," he nodded toward her hands.

Noticing the foreboding red waves concentrating around her skin, she dropped the chest plate and shoved the offending appendages under her thighs, out of her line of sight. She was literally sitting on the problem, adamant to avoid analysing what the new development could portend. "When I asked you to… and then we…"

"Hey, we don't have to say anything," Varric shifted to relax, waving a dismissive hand and shaking his head. "I get it: you needed a release, and… Well, let's just say I was happy to provide one."

Still, he was growing increasingly awkward, twirling his thumbs in his lap as he focused on the movement to avoid looking at her. _Why did I insist on bringing this up?_ Despite this lamentation, like a masochist, she dug the hole a bit deeper. "I don't know what I was thinking, but after the surges, it is sometimes difficult to see things clearly. And it was unfair to drag you down with me, given all I had said before. I used you, and I'd like to believe I would not have done so, were I not –"

"Look, Seeker, you don't have to explain what a 'one night stand' is to me." His words catching in his throat, the dwarf stood and bent down to retrieve the dropped armour, holding it near his body almost as if it were a shield aimed to keep her at bay. "I've had my share, and they're nothing to be ashamed of. No need to go feeling all guilty for messing me around; you've got bigger problems, right now – and I'm of the opinion that _this_ should take priority."

Though she had felt the urge to argue with him about their ill-timed fling, she dropped the subject entirely, letting her annoyance at his frank dismissal fall by the wayside. The thrumming of blood pulsing in her ears was like a war drum beating against her skull, and she glanced around to avoid his gaze, noticing the menagerie nearby for the first time, alive with flighty feathered wings… though she heard nothing from them, not even a chirp… That was unusual…

Shifting her eyes back in Varric's direction, Cassandra turned her head slowly, watching his lips move in some heartfelt speech or lecture he was giving. A low, watery hum was drowning out all sound, and though a breeze stirred his hair and blew over his overcoat, she felt absolutely nothing. There was no cooling effect for her, even though she felt her hair and clothes stir in the wind, the swift gust bending the boughs of trimmed trees on the property.

_We endure…_

He was frowning at her as her vision tunnelled. His lips moved over and over, repeating a word, possibly in an attempt to call out to her, but she heard nothing. She had the sinking sensation of being dragged down. And she couldn't breathe…

Varric's eyes bored deep into his head, disappearing beneath black shadows. His clothes rotted, face withered, lips drying and pulling tightly over yellowing teeth. She could see the contours of his skull, cheeks hollowing until his skin was no more than leather over bone, succumbing to an accelerated decomposition process that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

_We wait…_

Red engulfed her vision like blood running into her eyes, the world falling into crimson-tinted shadow. When the corpse stepped toward her, she raised her hands and recoiled… only to find her movements slow and lumbering. Indeed, she felt as if she were floating on another plane of existence. She screamed for help, but she couldn't be sure the cry had passed her lips. Aside from the voice, no sound carried to her ears, isolating her entirely from the waking world.

_We have found the dreams again…_

She was grabbed by rough hands and shaken violently. Trying to reach her, the animated body slapped lightly at her cheeks with his mummified fingers. A sick horror flooded her and, without a second thought, she shoved the corpse off with violence and roared out an intimidating battle cry to force him down.

Again, no sound.

Oh, Maker help her, she was underwater.

The Seeker gasped, but instead of being filled with the cold waters of the mire this time, she was scalded by a wave of heat that penetrated her lungs and engulfed her like a thick cloud of choking smoke. In an instant, a group of yet more corpses appeared and raced toward her in a horrific replay of her harrowing experience.

 _We will awaken_ …

With those final words echoing through her head, Cassandra drowned, watching helplessly as the corpses reached her through the darkness seconds before she collapsed on the grass.

**~oOo~**

Varric paced before the fire in Madam de Fer's master suite, desperately waiting for something to change while he fought the strains of a searing headache. Rubbing at his neck again, he glanced over and tried not to let the worry be so evident in his eyes, but there was no use disguising it. The anxiety was eating him alive.

For the sixth time, Blackwall attempted to persuade him to sit down, but he ignored the request just as he had the last five. If he was standing, he was only a few steps away in case they needed his assistance. Sitting was admitting uselessness, and the man refused to relax until he knew she was going to be all right. A drink would go a long way toward calming his nerves, right about now… But he ignored the shakes that accompanied the cravings.

Vivienne knelt beside the bed, dipping cloth strips in a basin and using magic to freeze the water before handing them off to Dorian to apply to Cassandra's forehead, throat, chest, arms, legs… They covered her, recalling the Kid's observation in the Hissing Wastes that red lyrium seemed "less angry" when cold, but the process had needed to be repeated all over again, as eventually steam would rise from the compresses, melting with rapidity against her fiery body.

The door opened soundlessly, Dagna and Sera letting themselves in with the Seeker's armour split between them, and he rushed over to help them with their cumbersome burden. Taking the boots before Sera nearly dropped them on the floor, he turned them over in his hands and spotted the runes now embedded in the calf areas of the obsidian.

"Boy, am I ever glad I brought along some of my supplies," the arcanist admitted under her breath.

"Frost runes," Varric nodded, studying the faintly glowing marks on the stones. That might just do the trick… "Don't they _protect_ from the cold?"

Sera pointed at one of the small runes and tapped its surface. "Nah, she's a clever one. Those 'uns are modified to feel really icy on yer skin. I tried 'em on myself to test 'em out – felt like I was suddenly buried in an avalanche," she shivered involuntarily. "Same with all the metal-y bits."

"The softer elements now have a few master fire runes, and should offer a lot more heat resistance, even if the heat's coming from her," Dagna explained, placing said armour at the foot of the enchantress' kingly bed. "We should probably think about getting her something with more breathable fabric, though."

Shaking his head, Varric sighed, "Trust me, she wouldn't go for it. Let's see if this helps before we start forcing her to wear anything she'd consider too dainty." _If she even wakes up,_ his thoughts darkened, dampening his hopes again.

"Dagna," Dorian waved her over, his eyes locked on whatever he was holding in his palm, "come have a look at this, would you please?"

Stiffening her lip, the dwarven woman made her way around the thick footboard to Dorian's side and climbed up on the mattress to get a better look. "Is this the amulet?"

Nodding, Dorian placed the metal in her hands after a moment, the chain still tethering the Holy Symbol of Andraste to the Seeker. She examined the item, turning it over in her hands to aid further study. Her brows drew together in confusion as she clicked her tongue, shaking her head.

"Noticed the same thing I did, have you?" Sparkler muttered, bewilderment in his green eyes.

Cocking her head to the side in perplexity, she gingerly took one of the mage's fingers without asking and touched it to the gold piece. " _Huh_ ," her shoulders sunk. "That's strange…" She touched the amulet repeatedly with his forefinger, Dorian staring at her frankly all the while, though not seeming to mind her borrowing his digit for her improvised experiment.

"What's strange?" Blackwall piped up, rising to stand near the foot of the bed and resting his hands on the pommel of his sword warily.

Dagna looked up, apparently registering all the faces staring at her awaiting clarification. " _This_ is," she demonstrated, dropping the pendant in Dorian's palm. " _There_. See that?"

"See wot?" Sera asked. "Was something' meant to happen? I didn't see nothing."

"That's just it," she shook her head, fascination dripping from her tone. " _Nothing_ happened. And that's… _weird!_ The symbol's enchanted, but it doesn't have any runes that I can see. Not any I've ever come across _before_ , anyway. So, I thought _obviously_ the item _itself_ must be a rune."

"Obviously," Varric mumbled sarcastically. "Then what's the issue?"

Vivienne pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. "The issue is that it isn't a rune. Had it been, Varric, the lyrium would have sensed the magic in Dorian's blood and begun to glow." She waved a hand toward the amulet. "And, as Dagna has plainly displayed for us, no such lyrium glow occurs when coming into contact with a mage."

"You mean the blue stuff," Sera clarified only for herself.

"How does the magic work, then?" Hero wondered, following the proceedings well enough given the circumstances. "Not that I understand the first thing about how this stuff works, anyhow."

"Your guess is as good as mine," Dagna admitted, plucking the amulet from Dorian's palm again. "Maybe if I knew where it came from, I'd have more to go on, but I'm stumped. _Sheesh_ , is it hot in here?" She commented, backing away from Cassandra a touch.

At that, Dorian's eyes went directly to Varric, a brow arching in partial understanding. "I think I might offer an explanation. Unless you'd like to tell her, Varric?"

Intrigued, Dagna looked up, her hopeful eyes shining bright. "Tell me," she urged Varric with scholarly interest.

He winced and shrugged slightly, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops before shifting his weight. "It was a gift. From me. I wanted to give her something important to her faith, so I asked Chuckles and Sparkler, here, to help me track down one of these artefacts. The legends weren't much to go on, but they were allegedly created for Andraste and her disciples during the war with the Imperium. Solas may have said something about them having unrivalled healing powers, too," he added, waving a hand toward Cassandra. "Judging by the way it's kept her going, I'd say the guy was right about that much."

"Healing magic," Dagna repeated, looking down in search of specific markings and biting her lip pensively. "So, this thing looks pretty authentic, if it's as old as all that. Maybe the piece was crafted _around_ the rune and it's buried in the metal…?" She shook her head, doubting herself. "No, that can't be right. It still would've glowed when Dorian touched it – even just a little."

"Does that mean it's not workin' no more?" Sera crossed her arms over her chest, the prospect of magic not an easy one for her, but the idea of it failing their friend less comforting to consider.

As if on cue, the relic began to emit its soft glow, a cleansing white light emanating from the sun itself. The opportunity too convenient to let escape, Dagna inspected the piece carefully, turning it in her hands to examine the backside. "What's that?" She mumbled, squinting her eyes at something that had appeared which hadn't been visible beforehand.

Leaning over her shoulder, Dorian's meticulous dark brows raised. "Some form of ancient Elvish?" He ventured a guess. "I don't recognise this particular dialect."

"Yeah, I thought the same," the arcanist agreed. "I've never seen these markings before, either. I couldn't begin to translate it; I wouldn't even know where to start."

"That doesn't make much sense," Blackwall shifted his weight, eyeing the relic suspiciously. "How could Andraste – or anyone else back then, for that matter – be fluent in a dead language? Ancient elves were _long_ gone by the time she rolled around."

Dorian grimaced slightly. "Yes, my brethren took great measures to stamp them out of existence," he confirmed somewhat forlornly. When Blackwall looked apologetic for bringing up the sore subject, the mage waved a hand dismissively. "Andraste's elven army was comprised of former slaves – all uneducated, of course, to better control them. If they were illiterate, they couldn't effectively organise an uprising against their masters." He pondered for a moment, remembering an important detail. "Shartan _did_ pen a book, however."

"Yeah, I get _that_ ," Sera rolled her eyes, blowing a stray hair away that had fallen over her eyes. "But he woulda written in _Tevene_. Not 'elfy gibberish'," she placed air quotes around the words. "But he couldn't've done the amulet thing. That's magical shite. He was a warrior-type, right?"

"That's merely conjecture on the part of historians," Sparkler reminded her, studying the minute swirling markings. "Maker's Breath… What if he was a mage? Andraste's closest ally, a wielder of magic _?_ The implications alone would shatter the foundations of the Chantry!" He looked up at the enchantress across from him, who seemed to be losing patience with their speculations. "Vivienne, love, you're the next Divine; what do you think? It's an exciting theory to contemplate, isn't it?"

She shot him a hard stare, blinking once before clearing her face of all traces of frustration. "I _think,_ my dear, that the two of you are physically preventing the amulet from using its healing powers on poor Cassandra. If you don't mind…?"

"Oh, _right_ ," Dagna gasped, dropping the artefact instantly in embarrassment.

Varric leaned forward, hoping he wasn't the only one who had noticed the pendant had taken its sweet time to kick in. Maybe his gift being under constant strain was beginning to delay the response time, or was fading its effectiveness. That was a terrifying prospect to consider. They collectively held their breath in the stillness of Vivienne's chambers, waiting for a change that didn't seem to come. Her form didn't stir, the cloths steady on her exposed skin.

"If she spontaneously combusts on us all, I'm outta here," Sera murmured, backing away a step or two from the side of the bed.

"Hold your horses," Blackwall shushed her, catching slight movement. "I think it's working."

To the great relief of all, Cassandra's brows drew together on her forehead, grimacing as she started to come around. Feeling dizzy for a second or two, Varric gripped the footboard to steady himself and tucked his chin to his chest to aid breathing. All these close calls were getting too close for comfort. Reassuring himself that all was well for the moment, he looked up in time to see the dark lids flutter open, her chest rising as she took a long breath.

She blinked, staring up at Dorian in confusion. Her head turned to the right slightly, meeting the expectant gaze of Madam de Fer, and suddenly her eyes went wide. Shooting up on the bed, Cassandra registered each of their presences in a matter of seconds. " _What_ in…"

And then she noticed how exposed she was to them. Gasping in alarm, she yanked the covers over herself and moved to press her back against the headboard. "Where are my clothes?"

"Be still. You had a rather nasty fit, my dear," Vivienne clarified gently, helping her preserve her modesty by hiking the blanket higher on her chest. "We rushed to the garden just as you fainted. You're in my suite now, darling. How is your head? You took quite the fall, I must say."

"I-I'm fine," the Seeker stammered, a deep blush staining her cheeks. "It's chilly in here, but I'm fine. Where are my clothes?" She repeated herself, glancing around nervously.

Varric leaned over and gathered her armour in his arms. "Would you guys mind giving us a minute alone?" He asked them, waiting for them to comply.

"Wot for?" Sera wondered, a devious smirk touching her full lips. "You gonna try bringin' the roof down over our heads again?"

Blackwall cleared his throat awkwardly at her comment, walking to her side and turning her toward the door with a hand on her shoulder. As he steered Sera out, Madame de Fer came up behind him and laid a hand on his arm. "If you're attending my audience with the Grand Clerics this afternoon, Blackwall, would you be so kind as to allow myself and Dorian to dress you accordingly?"

He paused in mid-step, his mouth opening and closing like a strangled fish. Squaring his shoulders, he frowned and shrugged timidly. "Ah… I suppose you could."

"Hurry, before he changes his mind." Dorian leapt forward at that and, as he gushed about the textures of fabrics and dyes he'd been dreaming of Hero adorning one day, Dagna closed the door quietly behind them, their lively voices carrying off down the waxed floorboards.

Silence enveloped the room shortly thereafter, the faint ticking of a wooden clock on the far wall detectable even from where they sat on the large bed, and in all that time, he couldn't look at her. Cassandra sat still warily, like a cat waiting for the other to make its move before knowing whether to fight or flee. Waiting for his heart to slow was taking longer than it ought to, so instead he turned away, setting the armour down beside her and rising to stand by the mantle, his eyes fixed steadily on the marble surround.

"You're shaking," the Seeker observed just before he crossed his treacherous arms over his chest.

He _was_ shaking. There was no denying it, but the causes were too numerous to convey. Alcohol withdrawal, terror, anxiety, stress, anger – pinning down the true culprit behind his tremors was pointless, at this stage. "Yeah, fancy that," he muttered, listening to the tell-tale sounds of the woman dressing herself slowly. "…You almost gave me a heart attack, back there."

She didn't apologise, not that Varric believed she had any reason to, but had she at least said so, he would have felt softer toward her. As it was, he had to will himself to bite his tongue and keep from continuing with his earlier tirade in the garden. He'd only make things worse by scolding her now for risking her life just to show up on the Iron Lady's doorstep, demanding answers she very well could have waited to hear when he returned. And he'd never win that argument, anyway, so better to save his breath for more important things rather than risk raising her ire.

Varric's ears perked up when he heard her struggling, and he turned his head enough to see she was fully clothed, fighting with the fastenings of her chest plate at her sides. The movement seemed to ache her as she twisted and strained to catch a glimpse of the buckles, but she growled under her breath and gave up with a sigh, slouching forward as she held her head in her hands. Setting his jaw, he silently moved to her side and picked up the gleaming metal, motioning her to lift her arms so he could secure it in place. After a moment, she looked away in annoyance at her own incompetence and relented, Varric placing it over her chest and going to work.

"When are we leaving for the Grand Cathedral?" Cassandra finally asked just as he fed the last strap through the buckle.

He closed his eyes and ignored the question, pursing his lips in a sigh as he picked up her right boot and took a knee on the floor beside the bed. Sliding her foot in, he pulled a leather strap too tightly through the buckle and relaxed when she hissed through the pinch. Then he moved on to the next, keeping his head down.

"Did I say that, or only think it?" She doubted her own mind, confusion etching over her brow.

"No, you said it," he reassured her grimly, finishing off the other boot and standing before her, looking down to meet her suspicious red gaze. "…We're not going."

Her black lids flew open for a moment before narrowing at him in a glare. "Then why did Vivienne _say_ we were?"

Varric took a deep breath and clenched his teeth to prevent them from clamping down on his tongue when she inevitably punched him in the face. "They're going, Seeker, but you're staying behind. Same goes for me."

Her fists curled on the satin, but he didn't step back. For whatever reason, he was more than willing to wrestle her to the ground if she suddenly decided to become violently outraged.

"I have attended a Grand Consensus _before_ , when Justinia was elevated to Divine," she spat adamantly. "I've faced the Grand Clerics at her side more times than I can recall. Trust me, I _know_ these clergywomen. I can conduct myself accordingly; I can control it!"

He very nearly laughed in her face, bitterness flooding his throat as he fought the reflex. Shaking his head instead, he crossed his arms and closed the distance between himself and the fireplace again, leaning against the papered wall. Brows lowered, he could tell his expression was as stern and stubborn as he felt, but he didn't care to rectify it. Shooting a glance at her, he caught her indignant stare and felt the rage bubble within him. "You're not going, Cassandra," he insisted gruffly, steeling himself against the volatile lashing she'd likely have as a direct response. "I could give you a dozen good reasons why, but I know you won't listen anyway, so I'm not going to waste my breath explaining my decision. The answer's no. Not today."

She shook her head in denial, and he understood then how useless she must have been feeling. "But I can attest to Vivienne's ability to lead! They will need assurances from those they can trust, since she is a mage!"

"Iron Lady doesn't need you to vouch for her," he crossed his ankles, doing everything he could to appear unmoveable on the issue. "She was already planning to face the Grand Clerics without you before you showed up. She's a big girl who can take care of herself."

That riled her. "And I suppose _you_ think I'm _not?_ "

"I wouldn't be saying anything different if she had drunk red lyrium instead," he replied, aggravation bleeding into his hoarse voice. Bitterly, he admitted, "But you won the damned lottery, not her… You're just gonna have to accept the fact that there are some things you shouldn't be doing until you're cured… I know that's tough to hear, but it's the truth."

He wasn't ready to hear what she asked next. Nothing could have prepared him to hear her say those words.

"What if there is no cure?"

"…Don't."

She moved to the end of the bed, gripping the footboard with both hands. "You said so yourself: the truth can be hard to deal with, but it may also be unavoidable. What if I never recover and –"

" _Stop_." Varric was at her side in a flash of movement, gripping her shoulders fiercely for a while. He waited for his pulse to slow, relieved that she no longer burned at his touch. At least the runes were doing their job. Still, he couldn't bear the awful thought she had placed in his mind.

"Just… stop, Seeker… You're not going to die, not if I can help it," he said at last, meeting her burning eyes. "I didn't come all the way out here just to piss you off. I had a plan all mapped out," he grimaced, loosening his grip, "but now that you're here, I have to scrap it."

Cassandra turned her head, eyeing him coldly. "What plan?" She spat, the veins in her neck beginning to bulge.

"It doesn't matter," he sighed out his tension. "It's not gonna happen, now. We were planning to stop at a few places before heading back, but I've gotta get you home as soon as that Grand Convention –"

"Consensus."

"Yeah, as soon as that's over with…" He rubbed his nose as he thought aloud, "We don't even have time to stay another night and get a good night's rest before heading out again." Heart sinking, he dismissed his previous intention of crossing land and sea to search the Black Emporium for something amongst Xenon's vast collection that might've offered an answer to his prayers. _Seems there was no reason to bring Cupcake after all,_ he thought. To be fair though, if he hadn't, Dagna wouldn't have been here to use her runecasting on Cassandra's armour, so at least she'd been there to do that, however unexpected her and Hero's sudden appearance had been.

"Well then," the Seeker grumbled, "do you want me to just _sit here_ and do _nothing_ until we leave?" She was scowling at him now, crossing her arms over her chest plate defensively. Sure, she didn't like him ordering her around, but it wasn't like she hadn't done the same shit to him since day one, or like he didn't have good reason to assume command of the situation. Andraste's ass, she could be a bullheaded ass, sometimes.

But as he thought of what needed to be done, Varric felt his heart pound against his ribs as if it was trying to knock a hole through and escape the claustrophobic confines of his chest. "No," he answered her, careful to remove the shaky quality in his intonation. "There's something I've been meaning to do since we got here, and…" He swallowed hard and forced a breath into his lungs in an attempt to steady his nerves. "…I need you."

Cassandra's angled brows softened and rose a touch at the tenor of his voice. "…Me?" Straightening her spine, her hands dropped to her lap as she stared openly at him. Relief didn't begin to describe his reaction to her shift in attitude. "What do you need me for…?"

Varric bit the inside of his lip. Scooping up one of her hands in his, he gripped her fingers tightly, reassured at last when she squeezed back in concern. "For moral support," he whispered, wary of the anxiety threatening to claim him.

If she was with him, even just waiting in the wings while he said what needed to be said, then maybe, just maybe, he could go through with this…

**~oOo~**

An hour or so after Vivienne, Dorian, Blackwall, Sera and Dagna seated themselves comfortably in a hired carriage and the horses had trotted down the lane with their formally-dressed friends in tow, Varric and Cassandra had gathered their things and set out on the long walk back to the heart of Val Royeaux, where the streets were alive with the day's political posturing and the alleyways were populated by schemers and dreamers alike.

They took a detour over the fields and through the forest to cut down on time, since the winding Orlesian roads usually took a meandering path over the scenic views of flowering hillsides, beautifully constructed manors, and ornate war memorials. Not much was said beyond the occasional warning of a protruding rock in the high grass or fresh animal droppings, to which they gave a wide berth, but the silence wasn't obtrusive or indicative of glaring issues still lingering after what had happened that morning, or indeed the night before. Overall, their journey had been quiet and uneventful, so to distract himself from what was surely to come, Varric mentally noted as many small details of the land as he could for his upcoming political thriller, kicking himself that he was unable to attend Madam de Fer's first meeting with the Grand Clerics to watch her work her magic, be it figuratively or literally.

The looming buildings in the distance comprising the illustrious cityscape of Val Royeaux drew nearer, each passing second bringing them another step closer to Varric making good on Bianca's open invitation to check out the new workshop. Anxiety at seeing her again, however, was the least of his worries. No, what truly ailed him was the thought of just what the hell he was going to say to her once he was standing right in front of her.

And then, like some kind of sadistic time travel bullshit, there they stood on the cobblestones, just a stone's throw from where her storefront had always been. It wasn't like the other boutiques surrounding it – in fact, the placement was at odds with the nature of the shoppes directly across from and adjacent to it. Bianca's place was nestled between a high-class shoe designer and a merchant who had an unhealthy obsession with jewel-encrusted edible eggs, thereby putting the unique workshop at odds with its more delicate surroundings. But the oddity of the unlikely position here was one of the main draws, bringing curious customers inside to walk over the sawdust coating the floor, breathe the scents of lubricating oils, and watch with endless fascination the stunning displays of cogs and gears working together to showcase the finer examples of mechanical mastery.

And, as luck would unfortunately have it, they were open for business.

It was tough not to draw Cassandra's attention as he looked up to subtly gauge her reaction to where he'd brought her, his eyes travelling over her for signs of trouble ahead. At least the runes seemed to be doing their job well enough for the time being. She seemed fine – as fine as she constantly insisted she was – but he knew somewhere deep down, the war was raging on and she was masking the damage that continued to take its toll on her. Physically her symptoms were held at bay, but the whole psychological aspect was what made him shiver inwardly.

She had uttered his name, lowering herself to the brilliant white stone frame of a raised flower bed. Varric blinked himself back to reality, his lightheadedness reminding him that he'd forgotten to breathe in all that time. His joints were frozen and fighting the commands of his brain to move to her side. Attempting a weak smile, he waved a hand subtly at his side, signalling to Cassandra that he'd heard her while mustering the wherewithal to explain.

"It was her, wasn't it," the Seeker whispered in shock, staring at the lettering over Bianca's shop and shaking her head in heartbreak. "She sent them to kill me, didn't she…?"

Stiffening his upper lip, Varric took a deep breath and let it out, turning his face from the strolling masked men and women walking past and meeting her gaze. The look on his face said all he wanted to say and more, the brokenness in his expression revealing his silent apology. She saw the way his brows drew together in remorse, the sadness in his eyes when he nodded once in confirmation, and the shame on his shoulders as his spirits visibly sank.

" _Why?_ " She had tried not to sound livid, but it happened all the same. Her voice caught on a snag of emotion, the corner of her mouth twitching as she fought to keep her emotions steady. "How could she _do_ this to me? I've done _nothing_ to her… " As she said it, though, her eyes drifted to the cobblestones, piecing together the motive behind the attack in an instant, and the silence grew exponentially.

Now Cassandra understood why Varric had blamed himself so deeply, why he had done what he did on the night he was supposed to come back to her bed from the War Room…

He pressed his lips to a fine line and took three steps toward her, positioning himself to stand between her slack knees. Looking down at her bitter tears of contempt, he whispered, "I've been asking myself that ever since I found out… That's why I'm here: to get information. If I can trust what she gives me, at this point…"

Her eyes flashed red, and he watched her swallow around a lump in her throat. "I want retribution. I _demand_ it," she stated clearly, glaring openly. "Let me kill her."

The dwarf must have been half out of his mind, because for once he hadn't taken her seriously. "I know you enough to know you'd regret it, Seeker. And if you thought the attack in the Fallow Mire was bad, just imagine what would happen if you murdered a practical Paragon," he mumbled sarcastically, a sad smirk brushing his lips. "Besides, you don't wanna stoop to her level, do you?"

"Yes."

The bluntness of her reply caused him to laugh unexpectedly, but he stopped himself short, bringing a gloved hand up to scratch at the red stubble on his jawline. "Well, you'd have every right to rough her up. You've done worse to me for less, and it'd get me out of having to talk to her," he shrugged, laying a hand on her shoulder where the pauldron didn't quite cover her. "But as much as Bianca deserves a swift kick up the ass for the shit she pulled, I should be the one to do it… Without violence, if at all possible."

Cassandra tensed for a short span, closing her eyes tightly and concentrating on the breath moving in and out of her lungs. After a long moment, she swayed and opened them again, the redness of the lyrium duller than it had been previously. Not giving in to the rage must have been difficult with every drop of blood in her veins screaming for release, and the struggle took all the energy she had in store and more. Slumping forward, she rested her elbows on her knees, rubbing the back of her neck with a shaky hand.

"All right," she relented, her dark veins swelling and pounding poisoned blood to her racing heart, "…I trust you, Varric."

Her words touched him deeply, and he knelt before her, taking her chin with his thumb and forefinger to raise her face to look at his. "You don't know how good that feels to hear," he smiled reassuringly, the temptation to kiss her almost too strong to fight… Almost.

Varric tucked her short black hair behind her ear and brushed his palm over her scarred cheek as he stood again, his guts performing death-defying acrobatic feats that nearly tinged him green. "Wait here for me, baby," his hoarse voice shook uneasily, giving in to one small habit by planting a soft kiss on her hairline just before backing up in the direction of The Inventor Emporium, his pleading eyes begging her wordlessly to stay put.

"I'll be right back… I promise."

And, without further delay, he turned and walked down the street toward the last place in Thedas he had ever wanted to see again.

**~oOo~**

"Work… _Work with me_. Come on!"

She wiped the sweat from her brow, feeling a smear of black lubricant spread over her skin in her wake. Wiping at it with the stained rag over her shoulder, Bianca shifted her other arm, which was lodged deep in the contraption, mindful not to accidentally hit the pedal at her feet and risk mangling her fingers, or more. "Damn it," she swore at the machine, frustrated with herself for not seeing the damned thing skitter toward her project until it was too late to shoo it away. "Get outta there, ya dumb… _Argh!"_

 _There_ it was, nestled between the threads of the main gear, threatening to gum up the whole project as it made itself well and truly at home. _Well, shit,_ the dwarf clicked her tongue in dismay. If she hadn't hit the kill switch in the nick of time, that mouse would have been dead for sure. Sighing, she slid her arm out and slapped her thigh, wiping oil-stained fingers on her filthy apron. "Right…" Narrowing her eyes in concentration, she figured she'd have to unscrew the wooden side panel to expose the inner mechanisms, and if it didn't jump out, she'd have to tap the pedal and crush the creature in order to fish it out on the other side of the gear, or risk it going deeper, followed by a deep clean to make sure no organic tissue was left to rot… Unless she removed several layers of cogs to carefully slide the gear out… but then she'd lose another hour taking it apart, cleaning it, and putting it all back together again – and there was no guarantee the mouse wouldn't just crawl in deeper then, either. She'd already worked all week to get this commission perfect, and she had zero interest in pulling it to bits over this meddling, insignificant rodent.

Blowing out a puff of air, Bianca used the expression of exasperation to keep a wavy curl from falling over her eyes and pursed her lips in final decision. _Easier to just crush it,_ she shrugged. _I can wipe away whatever mess is left after it's dead._ The mouse had sealed its own fate when it had tried to make its home in her shop, anyway, so this was its own fault, really…

Just as she'd leaned back and readied herself to tap the pedal with her foot to let the gears grind it to a pulp, the bell rang out, signalling her from the back of the workshop that a customer had entered through the front door. "Aw, _great_ ," Bianca fumed, rising from the stool and reaching up to her shoulder for the rag. She wiped it over her face first, then her hands, and slapped it down on the seat, making her way through the myriad of other contraptions scattered across the backroom. Untying her apron, she hung it on a nail and brushed herself down, not clean in the slightest but at least presentable enough, considering her line of work. She wouldn't _have_ to greet customers if she had forced Orram to take his lunch at the front desk, but the middle of the week was typically slow and she hadn't anticipated any –

Her heart skipped a beat or two as she walked through the door frame and onto the sales floor.

There he stood, arms crossed over a creamy silk overcoat and red velveteen scarf, one shined leather boot resting over the ankle of the other. He looked dashing, the gold of his earrings catching the sunlight through the windows, his signature ball chain necklace resting on a black, unbuttoned blouse. Was he all dressed up just for her? That was sweet…

"Varric!" Bianca crossed the floor in an instant, ready to wrap him in a warm embrace. As she approached, though, his shoulders stiffened and he straightened, his eyes cast downward. He must have seen the state she was in, and worried that she'd stain his lovely ensemble. Varric didn't usually concern himself with such things (after all, when had he ever been hesitant to get down and dirty with her?), but then again he wasn't usually wearing clothes fit for a palatial court, either. "If you'd written ahead to say you were coming, I would have dolled myself up a bit," she smirked alluringly.

He continued to stare at her work boots for a while, his head down as he nodded to her statement. Then his pretty eyes shifted to her face, something dark present in them that hadn't been there before. "Surprised to see me?" He wondered, taking a step toward her and nearly closing the gap between them.

"Surprised, yes. Not disappointed, though," she admitted softly, craning her neck to raise her mouth in subtle invitation. Ancestors, she missed the feel of his lips on hers… but good things came to those who waited. "Wanna come check out the new workshop…?"

Upon further reflection, it had been good fortune that she'd sent Orram away for his lunch hour. It gave them plenty of time alone, and Varric could be gone before the fool even packed his pipe. Before he could answer, she slid past the counter, gliding her fingertips over the wood as she glanced back, and sure enough he followed. He'd never been able to resist her in the past whenever she turned on the charm, and today was no exception.

The layout was more expansive than when he'd last been here. Her business had made more than enough coin to invest, and she'd bought out the cake shop behind her own to knock the adjoining wall through, giving her twice as much room to spread out and play in. The confectionery shop itself was now purely a back door for shipments to be delivered and received without having to squeeze them out the front door, which meant she could keep her machines in one piece instead of breaking them down into more manageable parts, forcing her to accompany her contraptions to their final destinations and perform in-home installations. Now she not only had more space, but time to devote to her craft as well.

"So?" Bianca spread her arms in proud presentation, going to her workbench and hoisting herself up to sit on the solid metal surface, leaning back slightly to display her other fine assets. "What do you think of my new digs?"

His eyes travelled over her numerous projects, all in varying stages of completion. She always could work on more than one task at once, pausing whenever another brilliant idea came to mind to begin tinkering again with another machine. "It's great," Varric uttered strangely, catching her off-guard with just how unimpressed he sounded. "Looks like you're doing well for yourself."

Clearly, he hadn't come to marvel at her creations. With a small sigh, she threw her weight over the side again and landed delicately on her feet, leading him to the back of the workshop, where her latest project stood. Of course, she had ulterior motives for bringing him this deep into her world, but the pretence of showing off her latest masterpiece lent itself as a perfect excuse to do so without having to spell it out to him. "This one's nearly finished," she explained, absently picking up the oily rag and giving her hands another once-over. "Some rich guy was asking if there was such a thing as a unit that he could store food in without it spoiling. So, I put my brain to work and invented _this_ monstrosity. It'll keep everything cold, which'll slow rot. I got the mahogany panelling off a carpenter down the road who has a knack for woodcarving, so I had him make it look a little more 'Orlesian' to blend in with the buyer's kitchen… He'll pay extra for that, but he doesn't know it, yet. He'll fork out anything I ask, since I doubt it's for food – most likely the dismembered body parts of his victims, if you ask me." Varric didn't need to know about the mouse inside, nor even what she was planning to do about it after he left, so she shielded him from the gory details.

He said nothing. No words of interest, no sincere congratulations on changing the face of home food storage as Thedas knew it. She knew why he was so down, but she waited for him to bring up the subject, not wanting to lead the conversation down that route if she could help it. Best to appear ignorant, and if he talked about it, she'd feign shock and sympathy, comforting him back into her waiting arms. _Patience,_ she reminded herself, quelling her giddiness at the fact that he had run straight to her, just as she had predicted.

"Wanna hear a story, Bianca?" He turned to her, his gloved thumbs hooking into his belt loops. Her lover swallowed hard from what seemed to be grief, but he was standoffish to say the least.

Bianca decided to help progress their closeness, taking a few sauntering steps toward him, accentuating the turn of her hips. She brushed her shoulder against him, licking her lips to moisten them in preparation for his kiss. "Is it a riveting tale of romance between two soulmates destined for one another…?"

His eyes knew where she was taking this impromptu visit. She could see the revelation buried there, but he wasn't at all surprised by her sordid expectations. Varric must have known by now that she'd always take him back if he ever strayed, and it was a relief to know that his parting words in the thaig that day were nothing more than a lie, as usual. He could never stay away from her… Not for long, anyway…

"It's a tragedy, actually… culminating in ultimate betrayal." His expression had hardened suddenly, as if he was fighting deep emotions threatening to break the surface and expose him.

 _Ultimate betrayal?_ The phrase made her hesitate, a terrible knot solidifying in her gut. He _couldn't_ know. The Carta had said the deed was cleanly done, and Bianca had to turn over more than she'd bargained for due to the unanticipated loss of life. She'd put up a fight, but in the end, had paid their asking price, not wanting to be in debt to cutthroat killers.

Still, something in the air between them had grown colder, and the purpose of his unannounced appearance in her shop was becoming worryingly apparent. "…Am I in it?"

Varric's eyes narrowed subtly, his frown lines deepening around his mouth. "Yeah," he nodded gravely, staring into her very soul. "…You're the villain."

Bianca winced and turned away, covering her tracks with a small laugh of dismissal. "Did you glean your latest inspiration from a bad batch of ale?" She teased lightly, though her voice wasn't completely disguising her nervousness.

"…I had a whole speech planned out, ready to let loose everything on my mind," he confessed sharply while she hid her face from him in an attempt to rework the finer points of her innocent expression, "but… I realise now there's nothing I could say that would make you understand just what you've done."

She froze, her back to him as she glared, wringing the rag in her hands. She would confess to nothing. "What are you talking about?"

He sighed aloud, and she heard the creaking of the wood as he sat down on the stool. "I stuck up for you, Bianca… I didn't want to believe you'd stoop so low, but you must think I'm incredibly stupid if you thought I'd _never_ figure it out."

Scoffing, she turned around, composed enough to continue with her act. "I know you like your little veiled mysteries, but cut the crap, Varric. Whatever you're accusing me of –"

"Don't play this game. I'm done with your lies," he interrupted with growing aggravation. "You tried to kill the Seeker."

Her jaw dropped, blue eyes rounding in astonishment. "What? What do you mean, _tried?_ "

She had slipped. A rookie mistake.

" _That's_ what you're objecting to?!" His face reddened, a vein bulging out on his forehead. Bianca had never seen him so infuriated with her in all her life. "The whole accusation part doesn't shock you as much as the fact that she survived?! Shit, I _knew_ it! How _could_ you, Bianca?!"

"Of _course_ it bothers me," she flailed in an attempt to recover lost ground. "I'm just… happy to hear she's alive, that's all… H-how is she doing?" Bianca threw the question in, feigning concern yet not letting it be so obvious that she was angrily devising how the hell to get her money back for the unfulfilled contract.

"What were you even thinking? Hiring the damned _Carta?!_ " He shook with fiery rage, walking up to her in one long stride and gripping her by the shoulders, shaking her over and over. She stiffened in his vicelike grip, snarling both at the pain it caused her and at being caught in her vain attempt to rid him of that interfering little bitch.

But then Varric's eyes softened, his desire to punish her subsiding in an instant, leaving only sheer disappointment and despair to write itself over his tired features.

"You know what… don't answer that," he grumbled, letting her go and running a gloved hand over his face instead to calm his nerves. He breathed deeply a few times, obviously fighting back bitter tears welling beneath the surface. He felt betrayed by her, and from where he was standing it was hard to argue against that perspective, however misguided it was. "I didn't come all this way to hear excuses."

If she could explain herself, maybe he would understand. Her old lover didn't want to hear her out, but if she could fix what was broken between them, he might be willing to look past it. After all, it wasn't as if his new girlfriend was _dead_ , so perhaps there was still a chance for forgiveness.

Her apologetic expression now sincere, she took a sorely-needed breath and started, "Varric… I never meant for you to –"

"To _what_ – to _find out?_ " The ghost of a laugh escaped his pursed lips, and he straightened to his full height, looking down at her with actual disgust painted over his features, shocking her further. "Forget it; I'm done with this shit. Just give me everything you've got on red lyrium, Bianca, and I'll be on my way."

That was the last thing she had expected him to demand from her. "What the hell do you want with my research?"

"I need it to help clean up the damned mess you made." Varric turned from her and walked to her filing cabinet at the front of the workshop, where all her invoices, blueprints, and receipts were locked away, Bianca hurriedly following on his heels. "I'm assuming Larius didn't hand every scrap of paper over to Corypheus. Knowing you, you've kept a few copies back for your own vanity," he spat, reaching immediately for the hidden key amongst the nails and screws organised in a drawer. Damn it, he knew all her secrets, apparently! He shoved the key into the lock mechanism and turned the blade until it clicked, throwing the metal drawer open haphazardly and reaching in to pull out a handful of files, laying them out on the workbench. He was screwing everything up and he didn't even care, rifling through the stacks without bothering to keep them in their meticulous order.

Riled, Bianca slammed her hand down on the pile, stopping him in mid-search. "Don't you think you should ingratiate yourself to me instead of this pathetic act you're pulling?"

"This isn't an _act_ ," he glared heatedly. "I get that _you're_ used to adopting whatever personality best suits the situation, but _I'm_ not like that." The bell rang again, signalling either the return of her employee or an entering patron, but she ignored it outright. "Just hand over what you owe me and I'll disappear out of your life forever."

 _What?_ Forever? No, no, this was all going wrong! This was the exact _opposite_ of what she had hoped for. "I don't _want_ you to disappear," Bianca pleaded with him, their fight bringing tears to her eyes involuntarily. "It's not over for me! _Damnit_ , can't you see what she's _done_ to you?! She's got you by the _balls_ , Varric!"

"Oh, _what_ ," he barked, setting the fruitless documents aside and reaching in for another file, "you miss having them in a jar on your fucking _nightstand?!_ "

"Varric – come on, this is crazy! We _belong_ together! What do I have to do? I swear, I'll do whatever it takes to win you back!"

"As if that wasn't already _horrifyingly obvious_ to me," he seethed under his breath.

"Ms. Davri, I presume?"

They both turned as one, their argument halting in place at the sudden appearance of an elegantly dressed human female, her gleaming white robes contrasting with her dark, shimmering skin. She ducked through the dwarf-sized doorway, taking care to avoid snagging her horned headdress on the frame. She seemed familiar, but Bianca couldn't quite place where she'd seen her before, though Varric's eyes widened with recognition and surprise. The woman clasped her satin gloves and stood to her full height on high-heeled boots, nodding her calm greeting to Varric before returning her attention to the inventor.

"Madame Vivienne de Fer," she introduced herself cordially. "First Enchanter of the Montsimmard Circle of Magi, Imperial Court Enchantress to Empress Celine, and former mistress of the late Duke of Ghislain. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear."

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Varric mouthing the phrase, _what are you doing here,_ but the haughty woman merely lifted a finger meant to dismiss his apprehensions. "Charmed, I'm sure," she replied, lifting a single thin brow in the woman's direction.

The mage smiled through closed lips. "Ah, manners. How unexpected, but delightful to find. You've assimilated into the culture well, for a dwarf."

The other brow joined its twin higher up. "Sorry?"

"No, my dear, I don't believe you are, but all things in good time." Her heels clicked on the stone floor of the workshop, hiking up her skirt-like mage robes to avoid the scattered sawdust. As she swayed, Bianca couldn't help but notice that Vivienne was positioning her so her focus was entirely undivided, and she caught the sound of papers continuing to shuffle behind her as he resumed his search. "I seem to have neglected to mention one of my more prestigious titles: I've been named as successor to the Sunburst Throne. Just recently, in fact; I've come directly from the throne room of the Grand Cathedral." She smiled again with that typical lofty grin the dwarf was so used to seeing on nobility, here. "The coronation won't be held until the Inquisition ends this dreadful war and repairs the hole in the sky, of course, but rest assured, I am she."

Well, Varric was certainly making friends in high places… She resisted the urge to turn around and use him as a shield, standing her ground in her own shop. "How can I be of service, Most Holy?" She asked point blank, sarcasm eking into her tone.

"Ah, there _is_ the rub," the new Divine turned her head in a nod before raising her chin high again, peering down her nose at the dwarf. "My dear Ms. Davri, I hate to be the one to inform you, but your little 'attempted murder' on the Right Hand has drawn the ire of the Left. Perhaps you might've heard of Lady Leliana, or shall I divulge her numerous prestigious titles as well?"

Silence draped over the backroom like a suffocating blanket, muffling sounds and darkening her vision. Bianca had certainly heard the name before, a name that struck fear in the hearts of many. Whether half the tales she'd heard about the Nightingale of the Imperial Court were even true was less pressing than the idea that she'd inadvertently entangled herself in that spider's particular web…

"I won't bore you with the details of how exactly she desires to dispatch you for harming her friend," the enchantress continued, lowering her voice to denote deathly seriousness, "but I believe you have a right to know that such plans would make even a hardened general weep for his mother… And I alone bar the door, shielding you from her wrath… For _now_ …" Her perfect brows raised slightly, her smile revealing the brilliant white pearls of her teeth. "Why, my dear, you're looking rather pale! Don't let it keep you from paying close attention, though. Are you following along, or shall I speak in shorter sentences so that you might understand?"

The rustling of documents at her back had ceased, and she hoped for a fleeting moment that Varric was coming to her rescue, but alas, he had moved to lean against the doorframe, notes in hand as he too listened on to Madam de Fer's chilling warning.

"The Lady Seeker is a _very_ dear friend of mine. She's practically irreplaceable. Indeed, _no one_ could compare…" She craned her delicate neck to face Varric, bowing her head at the Deshyr of Kirkwall. "I'm sure Master Tethras most assuredly agrees with my assessment."

Bianca turned to look at him then, outraged that he was allowing her to speak to her like this.

But as she met his gaze, he saw the light in his eyes go out, the one he had kept burning for her all these years. She was on her own, now. The connection they'd once had was wholly severed. It was over, and any lingering affection or mercy he'd once held for her was gone.

"The next time you scheme to commit something so fiendishly vicious," Vivienne finished, bringing Bianca's attention back around, "do the world a favour and dig your way back down to the dwarven kingdoms, where I presume that sort of behaviour amongst the commoners there is far more acceptable. If you dare contact anyone in the Divine's entourage again, or in the Inquisition for that matter, for any reason whatsoever, I shall neglect to hold back my Left Hand and will allow her to carefully explain to you the true meaning of regret… Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Her voice was paralysed momentarily as she trembled, making it necessary to swallow to relieve the dryness in her throat. Agreeing to steer clear would mean never speaking to him again, but doing so anyway was a good way to get herself killed. "…Yes," she blinked through her croaked reply, biting her lip to keep from saying anything inadvisable. She'd done more than enough already. "…Perfectly."

The woman straightened in satisfaction, rolling her shoulders as she glanced around the back floor with an expression of distaste. "…Lovely establishment, darling," she remarked, brushing the non-existent dust from her sleeve as if concerned that merely standing here had dirtied her attire. "Do take care. Are you prepared to return to Skyhold, Varric?"

Pushing himself off the doorframe, he glanced down at the papers he'd claimed from her strewn files and presented them. "Sure, Iron Lady. I got what I came for…" And with a nod, he turned around and walked back out to the shop floor, passing the front desk.

She'd gotten none of what she wanted. All that scheming, all that coin, all for nothing, and Bianca watched hopelessly as the love of her life walked out on her for the last time, leaving her brokenhearted and bitterly empty.

As Madame Vivienne ducked back through the low door, Bianca followed them out, wanting to keep Varric in her sights as long as possible. The front of shop, however, wasn't empty in the slightest.

A tall human with a great black beard whom she vaguely recognised grinned at her mischievously. "Hey, do you perhaps have anything that could keep my sword in hand?" He asked with a booming voice, swinging his weapon like a pendulum on his wrist. "Old war injury. Most the time it doesn't give me any trouble, but then it plays up and –" The sword slipped from his grasp, crashing into one of the models on display. "Ah, bollocks," he shrugged, though it had clearly been no accident.

" _Careful_ with that," the dwarfen woman stiffened, eyes going wide with alarm.

"See what I mean? Damn these butterfingers!" He shrugged and moved to pick up the sword, sheathing it in one smooth motion with the supposed injured wrist.

A blonde elf was on the other side of the long room, fiddling with the inner workings of an automatic timer. "D'ya sell anythin' that's _actually_ _useful_ or no? Turn my shit into sovereigns or somethin'?" The sounds of thin metal being bent out of shape grated on Bianca's last nerve. "Or make somethin' so nobody can go stealin' my breeches? Or somethin' to steal _other_ people's breeches with?"

Bianca stormed over and grabbed the timer, stuffing it out of view under the sales counter. "I don't know what kind of business you think I operate here, but –"

"Oh, a shady one, I'm sure," yet another man commented dryly, pondering a pull lever and brushing his long fingers over it with care. "That's the word on the street, in any case. Oh, you know how it is," he smiled charmingly beneath a meticulous black moustache, "tell one old noblewoman that a local merchant has ties to the underworld, and within five minutes, the whole city is abuzz with rumours and conjecture! What's this little thing here, by the way?" He yanked the lever, breaking it off the display with what must have been brute force. "Oops! Cheap quality goods, I see!"

Losing her cool, Bianca threw her hands up, her calculated demeanour shattering. "If you're not buying, just _get out!_ "

Varric opened the door, his satisfied friends nodding as the parted one by one. Watching her the entire time, Varric didn't break the cold stare, every bone in her body aching with the knowledge that she would never lay eyes on him again.

"They're not buying anything you're selling, Bianca," he shook his head, turning away from her for the last time. "…And neither am I."

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving her to reflect on the role she had played in destroying it all.

**~oOo~**

Varric came back. Just like he promised he would.

He had good timing. Though he hadn't been gone long before the others found Cassandra seated by the planter, her paranoia was growing due to the statue of Maferath the Betrayer in a nearby alcove, which seemed to shift positions and stare at her in her peripheral vision. Too frightened to look directly at the monument, the stone ground together like the cracking of dry bones as it shifted to face her time and again, and panic would have set in had Dagna not been beside her. If anything, if Maferath was truly looking at her, the arcanist would have noticed immediately and insisted upon studying it. Since she did no such thing, it must have merely been another figment of her poisoned mind.

"Hey," Dagna greeted him with anticipation. "Did she give you what I need?"

Varric smirked, holding up the parchments for her to take. "They're all yours, Cupcake."

"Excellent!" She beamed and snatched the papers away, thumbing through them as she gave the notes a cursory glance. Then she looked up and cocked her head to the side thoughtfully. "…You know, it's growing on me, the 'Cupcake' thing." Rising from the smooth stone, she tucked the small stack into her rucksack. "I'll study this on the way."

Madam de Fer patted a hand on Cassandra's shoulder before leading the others a few stores down the road toward the massive archways leading out to the city gates. Staying behind, Varric, draped his strong arms over her shoulders and bent his head, his forehead resting against her own.

"It's done, Seeker," he sighed, moving to kiss her forehead lovingly. "She'll never cause trouble for us again… You doing okay?"

A nervous smirk touched the corner of her mouth, waiting for a couple walking arm-in-arm to pass by so they wouldn't overhear her. "Other than Maferath wanting to compare old war wounds," she cocked her head to her right in the direction of the statue, the thing hearing its name and turning to glare at her once more, "…I'm all right."

He kneaded at a knot on the back of her neck soothingly. "And why would he want to talk to you, Seeker? You're boring."

She smiled through the pain residing in every aching muscle. "Tell _him_ that. He didn't believe me."

Varric's eyes smiled in appreciation, gladdened at the return of her humour, however bleak it may have been. "Come on, Cassandra," he whispered, his warm hands cupping her face with all the sweetness he'd ever shown her. He helped her rise to her feet and let her rest a hand on his shoulder to steady her way as she walked to their waiting companions. "Let's get you home."


	28. Red Is the Knight

Between the rocky shores of the Waking Sea and the frozen mountainsides of Emprise du Lion, there existed a somewhat tolerable pocket of land as far as the climate was concerned… Well, if the icy wind blowing in off the water was largely ignored, but other than that, it could've been worse. Their sturdy tents circled around a modest campfire, protecting themselves and the flames from the worst the elements had to offer on one of the blackest nights in recent memory. Tent flaps were tied back to allow heat and firelight to pour in as each person sheltered halfway inside to block the cold winds howling at their backs, and dinner sat warmly in their bellies while they occupied themselves before turning in for the night.

Cupcake sat to Varric's left at the entrance of his tent, fully enraptured by the notes she'd taken out once they had settled. On his own lap laid an open journal, quill in hand as he jotted down the occasional line of dialogue his characters whispered from the dark recesses of his mind for reference later. To his right, the Seeker had moved her pillow down near the door and crashed as soon as she'd lowered her head, unable to sleep in her armour without pinching a nerve or cutting off circulation. He'd helped her discard it, promising to watch over her while she slept, but so far nothing untoward had occurred.

A grunt sounded softly, calling him back from his silent scribbles. Dagna was shifting, an elbow resting on her knee as she propped her forehead up with a hand, staring down in frustration at Bianca's research.

"Anything promising?" He pried halfheartedly, though if her whingeing complaints were anything to go by, he already knew the answer.

"Not really," the arcanist kept her voice down, flipping through the pages one by one in search of the notes she'd made in the margins. "I think I learned more about lyrium from the reports on the Deep Roads under the Fissure than these darn notes. The only thing is…" She rubbed her rounded chin as she trailed off, clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth. "It's _how_ Bianca wrote this that surprises me more. She hints at something… disturbing going on." She glanced up to gauge his reaction before clarifying, "I could be wrong, so take this with a huge grain of salt, but I get the feeling she didn't come out the other side of this research unaffected."

A hand automatically drifted toward the Seeker sleeping soundly at his knee, resting his palm on her shoulder as if to reassure himself that she was still breathing. "What sort of damage are we talking about?"

She shook her head wearily. "…You don't want to know." Rubbing her eyes, she turned to the relevant page and pointed out strange gaps in the handwriting, as if Bianca had started and stopped several times over a long period before recording her observations in full. "This has to be the original copy," Dagna reasoned. "She mentions things about red lyrium after a while that seem… well, 'glowing', for lack of a better word. She's obviously fascinated by it, the longer the notes go on."

"So were you, when you got your hands on a sample," Varric pointed out, inwardly noting that he'd experienced the same strange pull upon discovering the idol.

"Well, I wasn't around a vein for an extended period; I limited my exposure because I know I'm not _invincible_ ," Dagna countered quietly. "She seems to think otherwise, the way she talks…" Catching herself, she looked up with wide eyes. "I-I don't know for sure. Maybe I'm off-base – after all, I didn't know her well enough to make a judgement… Uh, do you want to have a look at her thoughts?" She offered the papers to him.

A chill ran up his spine. "Is there anything in there that might help us out?"

She frowned and considered for a moment, glancing down at the paperwork thoughtfully. "Not that I can see right now… Sorry, Varric," she admitted regretfully, "but I'll study these more, just in case. Don't hold your breath, though…"

He sighed through his nose and shook his head, remorse pressing upon his brow. "Then I'll just take your word for it," he muttered, running his thumb gently over the Seeker's shoulder. The last thing he needed right now was to read the potentially insane ramblings of his ex-lover and learn something about her he'd rather leave as an unknown, lest guilt get the better of him all over again.

He silently eavesdropped on the conversation his friends carried out with one ear, the other trained on the Seeker lying at his side. She had succumbed to fatigue not long after helping with the set-up, too exhausted to keep her dark lids from falling over her bloodshot eyes. He'd assured her after the first tent was erected that no one would cry foul if she wanted to call it quits right then, but it wasn't in her nature to give in to the demands of her body, however reasonable they were. Though he admired her for pressing on regardless, he worried about her resistance to doing anything that might indicate even the appearance of weakness on her part. Still, he didn't want to hold her back from proving her worth, even if it was only to herself. If he did, then in reality, he would be no better than his family…

In a sudden flash, the grave marker in the Fade came back to him, his memory as clear as the day it was formed. _Varric Tethras: Became His Parents._

Oddly enough, he'd never considered that to be his worst fear. It hadn't really crossed his mind coherently enough to be frightened of it. If anything, _caves_ were pretty awful, not to mention giant spiders, or anything that lived in the dark – hell, even the dark _itself_ was creepy, and getting lost in it was somewhere in his all-time top five worst-case scenarios… But as he had stood there in the Fade just staring at that headstone, a cold realisation had dawned on him: the nightmare demon couldn't have been more right.

His family had been exiled from Orzammar a few years before he was born, but they desperately clung to the old ways like shit to the bottom of a shoe, forever grieving the loss of their home. His parents cowered in fear of the surface world, and his father even died when Varric was too young to form memories of him simply because he couldn't cope with it all. His mother was no better with her unhealthy vices, never adapting to their life topside or stretching her legs to test new waters, pressuring her sons to be exemplary dwarves and paragons of honour, keepers of the flame of tradition… Until she died, too. But just when Varric had thought he was free of it all, Bartrand had assumed control and forced him into a position in the Merchants' Guild. And Andraste's burning ass cheeks, he had hated every minute of living in his brother's shadow. Bartrand was the "good son", the eldest, a beloved child legitimately born in the Dwarven Kingdom, but despite having Varric, Mom and Dad felt like they had nothing for which to live without their old home and friends to call on. He didn't lament the good times with them, primarily because everything they were nostalgic for sounded stale and bleak. Hell, their stories of the glory days underground probably instilled that visceral fear of caves from an early age without him even realising it was happening.

But that was exactly how he had slowly become his parents: By lionising a past filled with friends long gone instead of living in the present moment; By grieving over the only home he had ever known, unable to move past the loss of what was most comforting and familiar; By behaving like a coward and enacting a subconscious, self-imposed exile from Kirkwall, hurriedly volunteering to help the Inquisition because he felt responsible for the whole damned war for not stopping Blondie in time…

Even by fretting over the Seeker, coaching her on what was best, and trying to limit what she could do in some misguided attempt to shelter her from the outside world, was exactly what Mom and Bartrand had done to him every day of his young life. He'd gone out of his way to avoid becoming just like them, but at his core, he was anything _but_ a breaking of the mould... And the realisation weighed heavily on his spirit.

Cassandra breathed deeply beside him, turning in her sleep to face him. Shifting his gaze from the white blank page to her still form, he couldn't help but feel sympathy for her, something she would sneer at if he ever admitted to it. Her skin was pale, scars more prominent in the light of the fire, black veins standing out on her neck and temples. She shivered, but it was better than the threat of her fevers, and he pulled the field blanket back over her shoulder, running the back of his numbed fingers over her scarred cheek.

Contrary to all his morose dwelling in the past, the Seeker was the epitome of a future for him, someone who represented a chance for him to take risks and make a new home from the ashes of the old… And his chest tightened at the thought of her not being around to take part in it.

Her tombstone flashed before his vision as he walked past it in his mind's eye. _Cassandra Pentaghast: Helplessness._ It figured that someone as proactive and determined as the Seeker would be terrified of a lack of control over herself and her circumstances. If he was being honest, the only reason he'd memorised her fear in the first place was so he could deviously plan a way to exploit it, but after they'd jumped through the rift and back to Adamant… Well, it wasn't worth rehashing all over again, especially if he couldn't drink the memory away.

And like a cruel joke, Hawke's ghost appeared to once again stare down at his own revealing headstone, which Varric had glanced toward just before Solas had guided them in the right direction.

_Garrett Hawke: Failed to Save Them._

His family, lover, friends, the templars, the mages, the poor, the Chantry… Kirkwall. Varric sighed and closed his eyes, broken anew at his loss. "You saved us in the end, Hawke _,_ "he whispered to himself, wondering if the reckless bastard could hear him from wherever his spirit resided now… But he left thoughts of his old friend behind, turning his attention back to his new ones.

Buttercup rubbed her hands together vigorously, holding her fingers as close to the flames as she could tolerate. Just behind the elf, Hero emerged from within the confines of the tent and draped a thick wool blanket over her shoulders, patting her back companionably when she straightened in surprise. Uttering her thanks, she pulled it around her form tightly, waiting until her teeth inevitably ceased their chattering.

Dorian sipped at his tea, warming his own hands on the hot mug. "It's nights like these that I…" He caught himself and looked over the rim at all the eyes staring his way, waiting for elaboration. "Oh, never mind. Forget I said anything," he dismissed the voiced thought with a nervous twitch.

"Missin' Bull, eh?" Sera guessed, pulling the blanket tighter around her and tucking her feet inside. "Me, too. Could use a good drinkin' bud who's not so hung up on lady troubles."

Blackwall opened his mouth to rebut this, but paused before closing it again. "I was going to argue, but you're not wrong."

"In truth, I miss my _home_ ," the altus corrected them after another sip. The wind howled again, stirring the tents, but the fire was mostly sheltered from the gust. "In a strange way, I miss Bull for the same reason. He's… rather hot."

Sera snorted out a giggle. "Is it the muscles that do it for ya, or those big ol' horns?"

"Or the eyepatch," Hero waggled a brow, chuckling. " _Very_ mysterious."

"That's not _quite_ what I meant," he scoffed, resisting a twitch in his eye. "Not to get _too_ sentimental, but… Well, the south is far colder than what I'm accustomed to, and Bull is… surprisingly warm." The mage cleared his throat and absently stroked a heated palm down his arm. "On nights when I'm particularly homesick, he… No. It's much too personal," Dorian shook his head, crossing his legs and burying his blushing face in his mug.

"Go on," Vivienne smiled gently. _Too gently,_ Varric thought with slight amusement. "What does The Iron Bull do to alleviate your troubles?"

The steam from the mug blew away with another swift gust, which dissipated as soon as it swept in. Relenting after a moment of silence, Dorian sighed longingly. "…He pulls me close to wrap me in his massive arms and lets me rest against his chest. And then, no matter how cold I am to start with, I'm… genuinely warm again." The Tevinter swallowed another sip of tea in an excuse to look away before adding, "If I close my eyes when I'm with him, even for just a moment, I can almost convince myself that I'm… home."

The sweetness behind his statement had been thoroughly unexpected, surprising everyone who heard it. They'd all assumed the two were only carrying on an illicit affair, toying with the taboo idea of a qunari and a mage from Tevinter being bedfellows like it was something written in the pages of a smut-filled, clichéd fantasy about opposites attracting. No one would have guessed that their dalliance had extended beyond the physical, and by the mortified look on Dorian's face, he hadn't expected the endearing thoughts to surface, either.

Straightening himself, Sparkler blinked several times and eyed Madam de Fer in warning. "Don't you breathe a _word_ of this to Bull," he stressed, the threat in his voice clearly empty.

"And have nothing with which to properly blackmail you? _Hardly,_ my dear," she rested her chin on her wrist, smirking with those dangerous, twinkling eyes of hers.

As for Varric, the sentiment Dorian had reluctantly expressed pierced his heart in an unexpected way, though he cleared his throat and pushed all thoughts of it aside for now. Silently, he closed the journal on his quill and stuffed it away for the night, frustrated with himself at not getting anything substantial written. Once he'd carefully picked up the inkwell and corked the few drops that remained, he held the glass vessel in his palm and studied it closely, not noticing as his other hand automatically drifted toward the Seeker's to lace his fingers with her own…

The most natural gesture that had ever happened without his immediate knowledge. What a weird feeling _that_ was…

Exhaustion was settling over the campsite as Hero slowly dumped a pot of cold water on the fire to choke most of it off, packed away the belongings strewn about by the wind, and removed dry garments from the clothesline to prevent them from blowing away overnight. The dwarf beside him yawned, and Varric suddenly remembered Dagna's presence there. He deduced by her silence until now that she had drifted off with the notes open over her lap and, stuffing them back into her bag sleepily, she rose to her feet to shuffle over to Sera's tent, crawling inside on hands and knees only to pass out on one of the two cots.

"Right, then – see yer ugly faces in the mornin'," Buttercup saluted after a long blink, untying the stays on the door flaps and securing them together.

"Who does Sera think she's calling ugly?" Dorian raised a brow in genuine confusion. " _Oh_ , of course," he waved a hand toward Blackwall, finally understanding. Hero let out the ghost of a laugh at that, scratching his beard absently.

The grip on his hand out of nowhere caused Varric to leap out of his skin, and the sound of air being sucked repeatedly between grinding teeth did nothing to calm his nerves. "Shh," he rubbed Cassandra's shoulder, ignoring the crushing vice around his sore fingers. She was still asleep, shockingly enough, but at least she wasn't conscious for any of this.

"Another bloody surge," Hero shook his head forlornly, coming to Varric's side and offering support while the dwarf braced himself. "She did this to me a few times on our way up. Here, lad, give my shoulder a squeeze if it helps. It's killing me after the long ride, anyhow."

Varric grimaced, slapping a hand down on his friend's shoulder and squeezing to distract from the pain. As Cassandra curled in on herself and somehow tightened her death grip, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting, instead taking out his aggression on Blackwall's back. "Shit, I forgot how strong she is during these things," he hissed in agony, believing utterly that his fingers were about to break in several key areas.

"Just during _these?"_ Blackwall offered a small chuckle, doing his best to diffuse the situation. It was a smart tactic – the less concerned they sounded, the less her dreams might use their distant voices to fuel her nightmares. This way, she was more likely to calm down and let the negative influences fall away.

After a short time, the two mages in their party approached, Vivienne taking a knee beside Cassandra and cooling her forehead with a rudimentary frost spell, Dorian squatting beside Blackwall and absently adding heat to the deep-tissue backrub the warrior was enviously receiving.

"Damnit, didn't I tell you to keep an eye on her? Why didn't you stop her?" Varric sneered through clenched teeth, shifting to ease the pressure he was undergoing while shooting daggers at Hero. Ever since he'd received that woefully insufficient reply the night they had arrived at the chateau, he'd been meaning to turn the screws on the man, and now was as good a time as any, since he could blame his snippiness on the pain he now endured. Still, he kept his voice as light as possible for the Seeker's sake.

Blackwall tried not to take so much pleasure in the apparently incredible massage he'd spontaneously arranged for himself. "Have you ever tried telling Cassandra she _can't_ do something?" He nodded toward her shuddering form in outward admiration. "She takes it as a fucking _challenge_ , Varric; you know that."

Without warning she let up her hold, and though the dwarf had an opportunity to snatch the crushed appendage away, he only relaxed his body in a great sigh of relief, his gentle hold of her hand continuing as if nothing had transpired to dissuade him whatsoever.

"Something more permanent must be done for her, and soon," Vivienne affirmed, her velvety voice hard as steel. "There are many pronouncements I aim to make as Divine Victoria, but I _refuse_ to let one of them be the act of naming a replacement Right Hand."

"The mission in the Arbor Wilds is bound to be over by now," Blackwall sighed after the two men let go of his shoulders, the mention of battle darkening his eyes and reminding him of his time as a captain in the Orlesian Imperial Army. "Twenty silver says they succeeded in capturing Samson. Cullen wouldn't leave without the man; not with so much riding on it. He's too valuable to kill."

Dorian bit the inside of his lip, hands clasped together while his elbows rested on his thighs, and Varric could pinpoint the exact moment when exhaustion finally hit him. "If they activated the rune Dagna constructed to disable his armour, then doubtless they'll bring him back alive," he yawned, fighting to keep his eyes open. "We shall see for ourselves soon enough. In the meantime, I need my beauty sleep."

And with a few nods of goodnight, that was it. Blackwall disappeared into Dorian's tent while the mage sealed it behind them, ready for the comfort of their dreams, and Vivienne quietly went to her private tent across the way, commenting that he should wake her if Cassandra's condition caused any concern. He had a tough job of it while kicking off his boots and reaching up with one hand to let down the flaps over the entrance. After an awkward minute of no success, Varric carefully untwined his arm from her grasp and stood up, closing the tent properly. Rubbing his eyes, he pulled the leather tie from his hair to shake it out, loosening his belt and unfastening the buttons of the vest over his loose-fitted tunic.

When it was all said and done, he laid down on his back, hands clasped over his bare chest while staring at the tent supports and waiting for the void of sleep to claim him. He briefly considered turning to hold Cassandra in her sleep, but he reminded himself sternly of what she had said in the garden that morning and let the instinct fall by the wayside in disappointment. Still, it wasn't long before his lids were glued shut, time slipping away little by little.

He jolted in his sleep sometime later, snapping awake in alarm. Thoroughly exhausted, Varric heard the snore rattle from his throat before his lids fell, but he lurched yet again, snorting involuntarily in surprise.

He wasn't jerking at all. Someone was shoving his arm.

"Move," she ordered him.

Before he could properly respond, he was pushed on his side like a ragdoll once more, and he turned roughly to face away from her, not knowing why she was so determined to annoy him at such an early hour.

Then her arm enveloped him out of nowhere, creeping from behind before pulling him firmly to her in a possessive manner. The Seeker pressed her whole body against the chill of his back and sighed with relief, wrapping around him tighter than ever before. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, absorbing her heat to fight the cold of his surroundings while she soaked up the chill on his skin to regulate her core temperature, and she draped a leg over his hip, the other tucked snugly behind his legs, trapping him in place. _Pretty sure this is exactly how giant snakes devour their prey_ , he thought in a blurry haze.

Still, this was undeniably comfortable, Cassandra brushing his hair from her face as she settled behind him. Despite whatever she denied while awake, in her dreams, Varric was always hers… and he thanked the Maker that, even after all this time, she continued to pursue him.

"…What happened…?" She mumbled sleepily, clearly unaware of her contradictory behaviour.

"Mmm…?" He stirred, patting the hand over his chest. "Oh…You had another episode, but everything's fine, now."

She lapsed in and out for a moment, sighing out a soft moan. "…I meant… with your story…"

He smiled to himself, glad at least that she was still interested. "Ah… Spoilers ahead, Seeker… They live happily ever after."

Pulling him nearer, Cassandra cuddled close, resting her cheek against the back of his neck as she drifted off once more. "Good… I love happy endings…"

And before he could make the same observation Sparkler had made, feeling safe at home in her loving arms, Varric was dead to the world.

**~oOo~**

This was all his fault. As always. _Fenedhis,_ how could it _not_ be, in this glaring instance?

From his place by the hearth, Solas stood beside his two companions as the Herald sat upon her throne, resisting the strong compulsion to pace like an alpha guarding his pack. His breath was carefully measured to control the hue in his cheeks, clasping his hands at the small of his back as though he'd locked himself in heavy irons. Closing his ice blue eyes, he fought for calm while the storm inside raged on. Yes, he would have his say in time.

But now it was time for less sensitive matters to commence, and he strained to peek around her audience as the Commander – not the Ambassador – approached the Herald to open proceedings.

"Forgive me, Inquisitor. For personal interest, I have relieved Josephine. As you might expect."

Their defeated foe was escorted bodily through the parted crowd to the opposite end of the long hall, but it wasn't the man in chains on whom the old elf focused, a worry line permanently etched between his brown brows. As far as he was concerned, his only reason for being here at all was to observe her.

"Knight-Templar Samson, General to Corypheus, traitor to the Order," Cullen announced, his voice tinged with familiarity and disappointment. "The blood on his hands cannot be measured. His head is too valuable to take. Kirkwall, Orlais: many would see him suffer. I can't say I'm not one of them," he admitted, staring at the fallen Knight with weighted scorn.

Lavellan leaned forward on the imposing throne, and his back stiffened in alarm. She paused in place for too long a moment, her mind seemingly elsewhere for a time, causing him to swallow hard and bite his tongue to keep from swearing aloud.

"What's she doing?" Bull whispered, crossing his thick arms uneasily over his chest.

"She's learning to listen," Cole answered while petting _Banal'ras_ in his arms, peering at Lavellan steadily beneath the rim of his tattered hat, "…and not to. They stir inside her, speaking soft secrets in a long-lost language… It's hard to hear her."

Solas resisted the urge to cross the floor and enter his study, the impulse to throw a full bucket of paint at one of his murals growing stronger with each passing second. He'd been trapped between a rock and a hard place. The sentinel, Abelas, eternal guardian of Mythal's great temple, had nearly destroyed the _Vir'abelasan_ to keep its secrets from the clutches of unworthy hands, but to decimate a relic so precious and rare in this world would have been a tragedy worth unceasing mourning. The witch, Morrigan, had passionately volunteered to drink, but she sought the ancient knowledge of his People for selfish ends, in his opinion, and he'd scoffed at the very idea of it surviving so long only to have _her_ as its vessel, the woman arrogantly believing herself more deserving than all else present. And, of course, _he_ would never dare to consume it; he _knew_ what that act would entail and refused to play slave to Mythal, or anyone for that matter, regardless of how noble she was. To let it fall to Corypheus, however, would have been catastrophic.

 _She is right about only one thing: we should take the power which lies in that well,_ was all he had allowed himself to say at the time.

So, there had been only one choice left to her…

At last, she sighed and straightened herself, clearly able to function under her new burden again. "Judging him will affect as many as his crimes. I won't take it lightly…"

"The red lyrium will steal your vengeance," Samson declared forebodingly, his bitter voice carrying throughout the main hall. "You know what it does. Corypheus only delayed my corruption."

Eyes narrowing a fraction, Solas' heart quickened its pace. The General believed himself a dead man walking. With the crystals spreading in his veins, that was easy to understand, but what had set Solas on alert was what he had revealed. Without the Elder One's magic, without the aid of the foci, the fallen Knight would surely die, just as Cassandra would without the protection of her amulet.

Samson would have nothing to offer in the way of a cure, but if Solas could just destroy Corypheus and reclaim the orb…

His musings were cut short as Cullen wheeled on the prisoner. "Are you still loyal to that thing?!" He was incredulous, incensed enough to abandon his role as arbiter in lieu of venting his outrage. "He poisoned the Order, used them to kill thousands!"

"Templars have always been used," Samson countered readily. "How many were left to rot, like I was, after the Chantry burned away their minds? _Piss_ on it," he spat. "I followed him so at least templars could die at their best! Same lie as the Chantry… The prophet just isn't as pretty."

Lavellan shook her head clear for a moment before leaning forward, resting an elbow on her knee. "I found your people. They _believed_ in you. Believed your cause was righteous."

That seemed to disturb the man, hitting upon some unseen scar, though he fought to recover from the old wound. "…Not your business, Inquisitor."

"Your friend Maddox was so loyal, he _killed_ himself," the Commander sneered. "For _you_." Even from where he stood, Solas could tell Cullen found the notion repugnant, but to inspire such loyalty was a noteworthy achievement. Prospects must have been slim indeed for the Order to willingly follow Samson down into depravity.

"They were _always_ going to die," the General shook his head. "I saw what Corypheus was doing, so yes, I fed them hope instead of despair! I made them believe their pain had purpose… Just like the Chantry," he chuckled ruefully, raising his eyes to his former brother in arms. "Right, Commander?"

Solas stirred uncomfortably, Bull shifting to give him much-needed space. _Hope instead of despair..._ He disliked the feeling of finding common ground with the man, yet an ounce of sympathy bled out of him. Despite the fact that he would never choose that route himself, he could certainly understand where their surly war captive was coming from.

"…It ended as well as anything else I've done," he heard Samson say, though it was so quiet, others around him totally missed the depressing confession. "Corypheus would kill me on sight. I'll tell your people what they want… Everything I cared about is destroyed…"

Yet again, she paused, and again he felt the cold pit in his stomach widen, threatening to swallow him whole. As the awkward silence grew, Commander Cullen stole a glance toward the Inquisitor, the concerned expression on the man's face mirroring Solas' own. She sat rigid on her throne while staring blankly ahead, only occasionally breaking her odd trance to cast a nervous smile toward the ex-templar and tap a finger on the stone arm, attempting to remain casual despite the chaos now dwelling in her mind.

Oh, how Solas had wanted to beg her more adamantly not to go through with it, but to do so might have been misinterpreted – or worse, _correctly_ interpreted. Would they have even _believed_ him, or merely taken his warnings as pure speculation on his part? How could he have been more clear without further drawing suspicion to himself? Should he have made more of an effort to stop her? But then who else would have been left to drink of it? Cole? The Iron Bull? No… From a completely logical standpoint, there was no other option for them if the _Vir'abelasan_ was to be preserved.

Indeed, Lavellan's choice was ultimately his own making, setting the guilt entirely upon his shoulders for the thousandth time. How often had he dissuaded her from relying on Dalish folktales, on fables and farces, on unreliable oral tradition? Had he not, at every bend in the road, encouraged her to seek out only the truth? What should he have expected after months of subtly persuading her away from her firm reliance on myth and legend? He'd consistently stressed the importance of her legacy, eager to impart knowledge and instruct her in the ways of true wisdom. _Going directly to the source of any rumour will provide one with more certainty,_ he'd once said to her so casually that the memory now pained his heart. And yes, she had gone directly to the source this time, however dangerous it was.

Yet as she had waded into the well and sipped of its waters, the explosive tidal wave thereafter knocking them to the ground, he had dreaded the worst. He had feared she had been lost to him forever.

Only then had he regretted his decision to remain silent.

At that moment, the main door creaked on its massive hinges, and the three turned in time to see their companions file in quietly, careful not to disturb the proceedings. Blackwall held the door as Vivienne passed through first, followed closely by Sera and Dagna, all quite exhausted from their journey. Dorian and Varric were the last to come through before the door was silently closed behind them, both flanking Cassandra as they supported her, all but holding her upright. When he shot the bearded warrior a questioning glance, the man came to stand beside him, folding his arms.

"Has Seeker Cassandra taken a turn for the worse?" Solas mumbled, a fist touching his lips to effectively disguise his words from the others.

Shrugging ever so slightly, Blackwall shifted his weight from one boot to the other at took advantage of his proximity to mutter back, "Beats me. She was doing just fine until we climbed the outer stairs. They caught her just before she could take a tumble over the side… Mentioned something about her blood spinning." Though his voice was awash with concern, he made no outward signs of it, and the elf craned his neck just enough to observe the warrior cradling her head in her hands.

"Samson, you can still be of use to good people," Lavellan decided, calling Solas' attention forward again as she reached sentencing. "What you know is less important than what you are. My arcanist will study your resistance to red lyrium."

He watched closely until Samson lowered his head in defeat at her words. "Do as you will, Inquisitor. Your kind always does."

After witnessing all she cared to, Vivienne nodded to herself and left their company without a word, going immediately to the Spymaster, who happened to be standing nearby. He wondered briefly how her conference with the Grand Clerics went, but in all honesty, trading sharp words with the enchantress wasn't worth the information he would gain.

As the soldiers began to lead Samson away, Dagna stood on her toes, squinting toward the front. "Wait, what am I doing? …I missed it."

"They got 'im. Inky says you get to frisk him bloody," Sera nudged her, a cheeky smile on her lips. "Some girls have all the fun, eh?"

Varric's tired voice held a note of hope at that. "Well, there's a lucky turn of events. Maybe you'll find something after all, Cupcake."

Dorian winced slightly. "I'm not certain that turning the poor fool into a live specimen is the _best_ we could do," the Tevinter sighed, rubbing at his brow, "but thank the Maker _I_ don't have to make these decisions…"

Dagna cleared her throat through a bright smile. "Well, it's been fun, but I better get back to the undercroft," she waved goodbye to the gathering. "Sure hope Harritt hasn't wrecked the place while I was out." And at their nods of farewell, the dwarven arcanist slinked through the crowd back to her post to await further orders.

Light murmurings returned to the great hall eventually, its occupants stirring as they migrated back to their usual cliques and gossip circles. Solas had continued to stare toward the throne while the Inquisitor exchanged words with her Commander, finally releasing the joined hands at his back with a deep breath and turning just as The Iron Bull stepped forward to scoop the formerly grumbling altus into his waiting arms. He hugged the mage affectionately, the publicness of their display somewhat surprising the elf.

Dorian at last relaxed against him and lowered his head to the qunari's expansive shoulder, patting his back slowly in reassurance. "Yes, yes. Good to see you, too, Bull," he greeted the hulking mercenary with a sarcastic smirk.

Curiously, Cole looked up at the two then, a soft smile touching the outer corner of his mouth. "He missed his signature scent: sweat, soap, cinnamon… Sincere arms and sweet charms send his spirits soaring back to where he wants to be. _Home, at last…_ "

Unnerved, Bull turned to look directly at the boy, setting Dorian gently back to the stone floor, where the blushing mage ironed out the soft wrinkles in his glimmering robes. " _Cole_ ," he muttered through clenched teeth, smoothing his moustache to hide his humiliation. " _Not. Now._ "

Cocking his head to the side in confusion, the compassionate spirit only replied, "Oh. I wasn't listening to you."

His dark brows shot up in pleasant surprise, lowering again as he glanced up at the qunari. "Why, is that _so?_ " He grinned knowingly.

The Iron Bull pressed his lips to a fine line and scratched uncomfortably at his stubble. " _Umm_ … Shit."

The awkward moment was interrupted by yet another as the guards passed them, hauling Samson roughly in tow. In an instant, _Banal'ras_ leapt from Cole's arms and bolted in the other direction, obviously spooked by an unknown force, causing the elf's pointed ears to twitch. Curiously, the captured General stiffened as he passed the group, his eyes going wide upon something internal taking place that he presumably hadn't expected. Though Samson froze in shock, confusion written plainly over his pale features, he didn't have time to register the odd sensation before he was shoved bodily into the foyer and out the door… And Solas took careful note of the Seeker's troubling response while the prisoner was moved beyond the immediate vicinity.

Sensing the disturbance as well, there was no chance to speculate on the cause before the Inquisitor joined them, a forced smile on her marked face. Whatever Lavellan currently suffered, she hid it beneath Mythal's _vallaslin_ well enough. "Hello," she greeted her newly-arrived companions happily. "Glad to see you all still in one piece."

"Inquisitor," Cassandra stepped forward under her own power, eager to appear competent before the Herald. "How was the battle in the Arbor Wilds?"

The practiced expression on the Dalish's face faltered for the span of a breath, likely wondering how to adequately sum up the convoluted series of events. "Uh…" She glanced at Solas out of the corner of her green eyes, catching his frank stare while he studied her. "Well, it was… _interesting_. But we got what we were after, at least."

"And then some," Solas couldn't help but add, rubbing the bridge of his nose to hide the pursing of his lips from view.

"Oh?" Cassandra glanced at him before eyeing the Inquisitor from head to toe warily. "Is everything all right?"

"Fine, fine," Lavellan dismissed her concerns with the wave of her marked hand. "A-and you?" She stammered, deflecting the question right back on Seeker Cassandra.

The warrior met the eyes of her travelling companions, and Solas noted their awkward silence, Varric rubbing the back of his neck as he winced. "I'm… fine," she replied at last, echoing the obvious lie.

The two women exchanged a meaningful glance then, as if there was a mutual understanding of self-denial between them. Neither was "fine" in Solas' opinion, and yet both were too stubborn to ever admit otherwise. At least they seemed to recognise this blatant fact, though they had nothing beyond empty reassurances to offer as proof of their positions.

"Hey, where did Mouse run off to?" The dwarf wondered, peering through the hall in the direction that his pet had scurried off to so hurriedly.

Sera made a noise that could be best described as a verbal shrug before suggesting, "Just call 'er over, Varric."

"Buttercup, she's not a mabari. Cats don't exactly come when called."

"Bet ya _she_ does!" And to demonstrate just that, Sera cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, " _Mouse!_ " as loud as she could, her voice echoing off the high stone arches above.

" _Mouse?!"_ A noblewoman shrieked, picking up her skirts and running toward the side wall. Without hesitation, three-quarters of the gathering followed suit, panic soon breaking out over the entire hall.

He closed his eyes and shook his bald head, having predicted such an outcome yet not acting quick enough to stop the prankster. Solas could hear his companions breaking into fits of hysterics over the scene that had arisen, Bull and Blackwall's laughter most obvious among them, along with the tittering of Dorian and the giggles of Sera. At last, Varric chuckled, crossing his arms over his hairy chest and feigning interest with his table by the hearth, whistling a tune to himself innocently to distance himself from the event.

"She's not that kind of Mouse," Cole uttered in confusion, wondering why the nobles and diplomats mistook the cat's given name for that of a rodent.

Either exhausted by her trip or her entourage, Cassandra frowned and locked eyes with Lavellan. "If I'm not needed, I think I should rest for now," she informed her seriously. "Wake me if anything changes."

"I'll stop by shortly so not to disturb you too much," the Inquisitor replied with a nod of dismissal toward the Seeker and the rest of her party. "Go relax, for now. We'll regroup later."

As several of the members of her inner circle left through the main door, presumably to trade stories of their adventures over a pint or four, Lavellan pivoted slowly on an ankle to face Solas, a nervous expression on her lovely face. She closed her eyes for a moment against the voices in her mind, but it was upsetting enough for the man to lose his nerve entirely, lowering his head and walking back through the door to his study in the rotunda. If she wanted to speak with him about what she had done to herself, she would surely follow, and they would speak in private. For now, though, his thoughts raced anxiously, staring at the unfinished mural adorning his wall which told the tale of when Lavellan's life had been altered once again by magic no mortal could remember, nor comprehend.

The Inquisitor had given herself into the service of Mythal, not understanding the full implications of what she had submitted to. Perhaps, in light of this, the hour was fast approaching when he would need to explain all to her. And perhaps, after all Lavellan had learned at the temple, she would not fear the truth as much as she might have otherwise… It was certainly something to carefully consider.

Whether he let her in on his secret in the end, he knew now that he must act to ensure Mythal did not maintain such a tight grasp on his _vhenan_ …

 _No_ , he thought mournfully, staring up at the mural as he heard the door creak open, his Heart walking in with a proverbial tail tucked between her legs… He simply could not let that stand…

**~oOo~**

A week of hopeful optimism and disheartening upsets ultimately boiled down to a gross weakening of resolve, and little to no encouragement from his friends was needed to finally give into temptation.

In other words: Varric fell off the wagon that night. Hard.

Relapse was expected every now and again, or so he had convinced himself in order to avoid the niggling feeling of guilt and panic he felt each time the tavern door burst open, fully expecting the next Divine to catch him in the act and turn him into an ice sculpture at any moment. But with every foam-topped mug, his nerves relaxed, allowing him to shake off the stress of the fruitless trip.

Whatever differences that had created friction between Solas and the Herald were clearly overcome through working it out privately, and while making her last rounds before leaving the keep, the Inquisitor stopped by the tavern briefly to say goodbye. She seemed happy to be going on an outing alone with Chuckles, and with the stress she was under, Varric was glad to see them taking a breather together. After all, _someone_ should be happy around here, at the very least. Lavellan wasn't sure if now was the best time to be indulging herself, though, given Cassandra's precarious ailment, so Varric had taken her aside and reassured her, in his own charming way, that everything would be fine while she was away with her man. Besides, once they came back from wherever Solas was taking her, they would certainly have something positive to offer in regards to Samson. Maybe he would let loose the secret cure for the lyrium corruption, or Cupcake would find a clue in his resistance to red lyrium that could increase the Seeker's longevity. Staying positive – or at least appearing to – in the face of crushing disappointment was key.

By the end of a night full of drink, laughter, and good friends egging on bad decisions, Varric had found himself at Cassandra's room, not knowing how or why he had gone there in the first place. He stood outside her door, awkwardly shuffling back and forth as he debated whether to turn around and find his own quarters or just go in anyway, but the latter won out eventually.

Still, even though he wanted more than anything to climb into the Seeker's bed and pass out in a familiar, drunken haze next to her, Varric could already hear the disgust in her voice to that kind of inconsiderate behaviour. It wouldn't be the brightest idea ever to invade her space in this state, especially while she was still consumed with the dilemma of whether to take him back at all. At the same time, however, leaving her to potentially suffer alone wasn't sitting right in his stomach, either.

And so, there he was, curled up with a blanket over him in the steel tub she kept stored out of the way in the corner of the room. Completely trashed. Without asking for her permission first. Like a jackass.

But Varric utterly blacked out before he had time to give himself all the shit he was due…

Or before he could notice the Seeker sit up in her bed.

**~oOo~**

_Come…_

Midnight. It was midnight at most, judging by the position of the moon high in the wounded sky… And the snow fell like funeral ashes to the cold ground…

Something was calling for her… Something in her very bones.

Cassandra had been half-asleep when her body rose automatically from the bed, walking clean past Varric snoring away in her empty steel bath. The smell of stale hops filled the air, but she barely gave him a passing glance as she was… _pulled_. That was the only way to describe what was happening to her.

She reached out and opened her chamber door, wanting immediately to turn around and put more layers on than the bare minimum of her simple nightshift, but she was unable to correct her movements. Blood thundered in her ears, beating a fast rhythm as she set her bare feet to the icy stone walkway. Still, all she could feel was the volcanic heat of the blaze in her veins, glowing hands outstretched while she made her way over to the snowy grounds…

Was this another nightmare…? Maker help her, it was more vivid than any dream she'd had yet to experience, but the horrible sensation of being forced through every step she took was so divorced from reality that it clouded all distinction. There was no way to turn around, no ability to cry out or fight against the draw luring her forward. She was helpless to obey the command of the red lyrium. Without knowing how, it had completely taken control of her.

_Come…_

She could blink, that much was certain, and she did so over and over through her scarlet daze, struggling to regain control of other facets of herself, other motor functions that would better aid her in this fight. It was all in vain, though, as Cassandra was barely conscious enough to register where she was even being led so thoroughly against her will.

When she at last approached a locked door beside the armoury, to her astonishment, the mechanisms cracked and snapped, falling away seemingly of their own volition. A guard somewhere behind her cried out and fled blindly in fear, the man not even attempting to stop her when the door creaked open as though a ghost had pulled it open on the other side. Would no one help her? Panic stirred her insides, trying to scream for attention, yet her mouth was all but sewn shut as she walked through and descended into darkness.

She could feel her breath misting in the air, chilling her upper lip with dew drops. The voice in her head somehow echoed off the walls of the stone staircase she descended unwillingly, chanting to the beat of her racing heart. Her lips parted, signalling that she had regained control somewhat, but her voice was still beyond reach, and her fingers twitched as she commanded her mind to make a fist. She was coming back to herself, slowly but surely. The closer she was to the red lyrium's destination, the more Cassandra was able to fight back against it. Still, as she reached the bottom of the staircase, she couldn't help but wonder…

"Come closer…"

A man had spoken, and for the span of a single breath, she believed it to belong to the Maker Himself, calling her home… But the voice was weak, forlorn, broken… _Bitter._

And then she stopped.

Right in the centre of the dungeon.

All was silent as she stared with wide, glowing eyes at the prisoner of war. He stared back at her, the expression on his drawn, pale face nothing short of absolute shock. Studying her closely, his bloodshot eyes travelled over her, slowly registering every symptom for what it was, the truth finally breaking on a sad smile.

And then he let out a breathless, wheezing laugh from his corrupted lungs. "So it was _you_ ," he whispered, daring to meet her red eyes in the near-darkness. "Unbelievable… You're the last person I ever expected."

At long last, she regained all control of herself, noticing starkly that the immense pain had dulled from the moment she'd arrived. Anger coursed through her blood, and she stormed over to his cell, feeling strong enough to bend the iron bars and step through to bludgeon him to death.

Seething through clenched teeth, Cassandra glared hotly. "What game are you playing, Samson?"

He stepped toward her, the chains around his ankle clattering as he inched forward. His eyes held no malice, nor did his words. "I only wanted to see where the call was coming from. Never expected it to work… If I'd had a proper say in it, I'd have asked you to bring down a hot fish pie." The General frowned with a shake of his head, his slick black hair brushing the back of his neck.

Not hesitating, the Seeker sent her fist flying between the bars, narrowly missing the man as he backed out of her way. "You don't want to do that," he warned sombrely, watching the dark veins in her neck swell. "Trust me."

"You think you can tell me what to do?!" Enraged, she kicked the bar, venting her frustration and only tenderising her toe in the process. "You _summon_ me in the dead of night and _expect_ me to remain calm?!"

"You want to go?" Samson gestured with a hand dismissively. "Fine. Stairs are right there, Seeker Pentaghast. Never called you here, anyway. The lyrium did that; not me."

She narrowed her eyes and snarled, "You _just said_ you wanted to locate the source of the red lyrium. Now you say you did not call me here? Get your story straight before lying to a Seeker of Truth, Samson."

"That's sound advice, coming from a crazy woman." Hugging his elbows over his chest, the pathetic man walked to the back wall of his meagre cell and leaned against the stone, staring down at the metal pot in the corner. "If you're still a Seeker of Truth, even though your Order's just as much in shambles as mine," he muttered through yellowed teeth, "I'll leave it up to yourself: you can go back to bed and suffer through your nightmares while no one else here understands the pain, or you can stay and listen to some hard truths. Your choice."

" _You?_ " Cassandra scoffed, her hands dropping from the bars to clench at her sides. "You don't know the _meaning_ of truth, telling the templars nothing but lies to make them drink! Why should I believe _anything_ you have to say?"

"Yeah, you're right," he nodded, taking her aback for a moment. "I'm a liar. I encouraged my men to drink for their new god. But I gave them hope after the Chantry abandoned them and took their dwarf dust away, leaving them to die on the streets like animals after they'd used them up. You want a comforting lie, go to the Sisters and Mothers. They'll tell you what you want to hear and offer nothing else. Your death will come anyway, same as mine."

Cassandra swallowed her rage for the time being, though it was difficult to hold her disgust at bay, and the feeling voiced itself before she scowled, "Not soon enough for the likes of you." Turning her back on him, she headed for the stairs.

"I just want to know one thing, Lady Seeker," Samson called after her suddenly. "Why'd you decide to drink red lyrium?"

Affronted, she spun on her heel on the cold stone floor and shot him a death glare. "I wasn't _given_ a choice," she bit disdainfully, the corner of her lip upturning in a growl. "Much like coming _here_."

In all sincerity, he seemed truly surprised at her answer; puzzled even. "Really?" Walking to the corner of the cell nearest her, he held the bars loosely, thoroughly intrigued. "We lost all the ones who resisted… If a templar wasn't fully committed to the transition, they didn't stand a chance… No offence meant, but why aren't you dead yet?"

"None of your business," Cassandra snapped back immediately, feeling extremely defensive. She turned to go then, but stopped short on pure impulse, pausing to consider his words more carefully. The stiffness in her shoulders relaxed and, against her better judgement, she surprisingly found herself walking back toward him to continue the conversation. "…Is… that the secret?" She asked, a brow raised warily. "Is that how you have survived this long? By giving in to the demands of the voices?"

Samson shook his head. "Yes and no. Corypheus was the one who kept me going this long. By all rights, I should be dead, but I didn't try to fight it… Anyone who doesn't give mind and body over to the stuff ends up as worm food within a few days. It's painful at the best of times, but I don't envy what _you_ must be going through if you're still fighting it."

She nodded along as he spoke, but when he paused awkwardly, she recalled the difference she'd noticed about herself upon her arrival. "…But I don't feel pain now," she muttered to herself, frowning in consternation. Looking up, her red eyes flew wide in astonishment. "Wait… There's hardly any pain! Why doesn't it hurt?"

Though her own nerves weren't on fire anymore, the same obviously couldn't be said of Corypheus' General. The sweat poured from his brow, and the lines of his face deepened as he winced through what must have been sheer agony. Cassandra hated the fact that she was empathising with his plight, but it couldn't be helped. "Could be because I drew it to me," he suggested, his fingers tightening around the bars in an effort to remain standing. "Or because it feels better when you're near the stuff… Or maybe because it just calms down around someone with the same stuff in them… Who knows? Not me."

She scoffed, her glare returning once more. "That's a level of stupid I've never encountered. You mean to tell me you ingested something without knowing how it works?"

Defiantly, the prisoner narrowed his eyes right back at her. "Show me one templar who claims he hasn't done just that, and I'll show you a liar." His next words were bitter as they poured from his pale throat. "And I know what you're thinking: It don't matter how much you had to drink. A thimble or a cask makes no difference in the end. You can yell at the clouds all you want, Seeker Pentaghast; it's still going to rain, so you're better off getting your coat instead of standing in it like an arrogant pisshead."

Desperate for answers, Cassandra ignored the insult and tried to catch him off-guard with a pointed question, affecting her best authoritative voice to force him to talk. "You know how to get rid of it, don't you? _Talk,_ or I'll _beat_ it out of you, myself! _No one_ can hear your screams down here!"

Intimidation didn't work on Samson. He'd likely suffered worse threats from his Elder One every day since allying with the tainted darkspawn magister. Still, behind his smug façade, his eyes twinkled in the dim light, the red glow of her skin reflected there for her to see.

"…I might know how to relieve your pain – for a time," he nodded, crossing his arms over the simple cotton tunic. "But you won't like it one bit."

**~oOo~**

Andraste's ass, he really needed a piss…

Varric groaned loudly, his shoulder smashed uncomfortably against the side of the tub while his head complained about indulging in too much too soon, but it wasn't the only part of him that felt the worse for wear. Everything ached like he'd been strapped to a rack and pulled apart. There were two rules as far as he was concerned to avoid blinding hangovers like this: either be young forever, or never go without a drink long enough for the aches to start. And he'd broken both rules, along with what felt like multiple bones.

Holding his head gingerly, he turned over in the bath and opened his eyes carefully, resembling an old man as he gripped the steel sides and leveraged himself up to use the chamber pot… and promptly toppled over in the noisiest crash possible.

" _Oof_ ," he uttered, grunting while rolling over on the floor to stare at the ceiling. Well, if that didn't wake the Seeker, nothing would, and when she made no discernible noise in the dark, Varric counted himself lucky. He rubbed at his eyes with his wrists and pushed himself upright again, shuffling over to the iron pot in the corner, where he relieved himself after a short struggle with his trouser laces.

The dwarf thought through a likely excuse to climb into bed with Cassandra after a minute, and resituated himself just before approaching her bedside. He felt blindly for her body, unsure whether he'd have to make his way to the other side or could simply lie down on the outside. She must have been nearer to the wall, though, so he carefully lowered himself down and reached for the covers at the foot of the –

Wait, why wasn't Cassandra under the covers?

"Seeker?" Varric's brow furrowed in confusion, and he reached over in concern, hoping to find her shoulder. Not finding anything but the wall, his hands scrambled over the rest of the bed, realising suddenly that it was cold and empty. She was gone.

"Shit," he swore, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head and shoving his boots on, doubling back from racing out the door only long enough to grab Bianca. "Why can't that woman just stay in one place?"

Keeping his eyes trained on the ground as he walked swiftly through the shortcut to the yard, Varric caught sight of a set of footprints not yet lost beneath a new layer of snow, leading directly to the door of the dungeon. Perplexed beyond all reason, his mind swam through dozens of thoughts at once, wondering what would have possessed her to go there, of all places, in the dead of night.

"…She didn't have no keys, ser! The locks just… opened _for_ her!"

"And you _swear_ you haven't been drinking, Jim?" Varric heard Curly bark, two sets of bootsteps rapidly on their way over to his location.

"I didn't have nuffin' this evening, ser – I swear on the Holy Prophet's golden hair."

"Well, blasphemy and double negatives aside, at least you did right by informing me straight away."

"Aye, ser. Sorry, ser."

"Wait here."

"Aye, ser."

Shivering, Varric bit his lip and made his way over the footprints, holding his elbows as he approached Cullen on his flank. "Need backup?"

Mildly surprised to find anyone besides the soldiers awake at this hour, the Commander at once understood the dwarf's presence and nodded toward the door. "I don't think I could stop you from following if I _wanted_ to," he sighed, stepping through into the dark. "Keep up, then."

**~oOo~**

Cassandra stared at him in disgust. "You can't be serious!"

"I knew you wouldn't want to hear it," he shrugged, giving up and leaning against the back wall.

"How would that not just make it _worse?_ "

Samson practically grinned and rolled his eyes at her. "I already told you: you take a little at a time to appease it, and it won't bother you too much. You stop taking it altogether, and that's when you piss it off and the pain gets unbearable."

She angrily shook the bars of his cell, the heavy iron clanging as the door swung with the shockwaves. "You said the amount of red lyrium consumed didn't matter!"

"It _doesn't_ ," he stressed again, clearly fed up with repeating himself. "You Chantry bastards have a hard time listening, don't ya? It's a death sentence, like it or not, but do what it says and keep taking it, fuel it with your anger, and it'll make you stronger. Trust me, you'll last longer and feel better if you do what it says. You want to extend your life for a few more months? _Then_ _use it to your advantage._ "

Rage filled the Seeker to the brim at his imploring, and in an unexpected burst of adrenaline, she let out a war cry and ripped the bar from his cell, tossing it aside before stepping in entirely.

He didn't flinch, having no reaction beyond doubling over from a stab of internal pain. " _Ahh-hnn_ " he cried out, clenching his stomach with both hands. The closer she was to the prisoner, the more agony he seemed to be in, though she stood over him nonetheless, her fists raised. The lyrium in her body sung, and she felt more alive than she ever could have, even in a hundred ages.

"D-don't… come near me," he groaned, his glowing flesh burning bright. "If you touch me now –"

"Cassandra! Stay back!"

The Seeker whirled on her heel in time to see Cullen storming toward the cell, Varric not far behind. " _Get out. He's mine_ ," she heard herself roar, though she hadn't meant to say it at all. Maker, what was coming over her?

"Can everyone just try to act normal for _five minutes_ _?!_ " Varric asked incredulously, eyeing the red waves wafting off her body in alarm. "Whatever that asshole did, Seeker, don't let him rile you up!"

It was difficult to hear anything over the commotion in her blood. More than anything, she had an urge to touch the General, the bewildering instinct nearly impossible to resist. Reason couldn't reach her, for she was well beyond it by now, and all she wanted was everything Samson had in him.

She _must_ take his lyrium. _It. Was. Hers._

And as if the substance in his body understood this fact, Samson's skin fractured on the arm closest to her, crystals growing out of him at an accelerated rate. The man keeled over and rocked on the floor from the excruciating pain, and she ignored the shouts from behind her as she slowly reached her hand out toward the glowing crystal, mesmerised by its spellbinding beauty…

Someone pulled her back with force, unceremoniously shoving her out of the cell, where she landed with a thud on the hard-stone floor. The lyrium in her blood didn't care for being separated from the crystals and screamed an inhuman screech in her skull, causing her to hold her head in anguish. She couldn't tell if she was the one letting out the piercing howls or if only she could hear them, but it didn't matter. Being so close to something so pure and then being ripped from it was nothing short of torture, and she writhed in her suffering, oblivious to whoever was trying to comfort her through the chaos.

_Save me._

Samson's blood called to her, the lyrium desperate to reach a new host and live beyond the prison bars it was currently trapped behind. Driven utterly insane by the call, Cassandra rose automatically and bolted for the barred door, preparing to tear it at the hinges to reach her goal…

But her eyes rounded at sight of the fallen General on the floor, his final screams choked off as the sinister crystals solidified over his entire body, freezing him in the throes of a terrifying death that sobered Cassandra's bloodlust in an instant.

"Maker's Breath, not again," Cullen breathed, horrified and stumbling back slowly in shock. "We'd barely begun to examine him!"

Paling, Varric's jaw dropped, a hand covering his mouth. " _Shit…_ And here I thought Meredith was just a fluke!"

The lyrium wasn't done trying to escape the confines of the dungeon, though, and the lifeless man on the floor all but transformed into a pulsing vein before their very eyes, roots snaking out and growing alarmingly on a direct route for the Nevarran. Terrified that she might be next, she stumbled back and crawled to get away before it was too late.

In that moment, Cullen, with sword and shield in hand, smashed the root with the heel of his boot to stop its evil crawl, causing a chain reaction that crackled back into the heart of the vein, the flashpoint causing the red lyrium to react on a chemical level.

" _Get down!_ " Cullen bellowed, bracing himself.

Before he could explain what was happening, the Commander raised his shield to protect them from the violent explosion, Varric throwing himself over the Seeker as they cried out in abject horror.

And for a heart-stopping moment, Cassandra's world, and everything she valued most in it, was filled to the brim with red.


	29. Not All Feelings Involve Stabbing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in checking out my art, I have sketched the portraits to all key members of the Inquisition including advisors for a collection to be given to the DA creators at a convention in November, and you can find my work at: melicious-intent.deviantart.com/gallery/62530599/Dragon-Age-Inquisition
> 
> Also, I will try to post SAYSF previews to my tumblr if the waits prove long in the future, so if you'd like to look me up, please do follow my blog: meliciousintent.tumblr.com

Raleigh Samson, General to Corypheus, was dead.

Cole was pressed firmly against the back of the cell, palms flat on the cold, rough stones, staring with wide eyes while everything had deteriorated down in the darkness. Too panicked to interrupt and not knowing what to do, he could only worry in silence at their heavy words, wielded like weapons to wound. _Loud bursts, bellowing, berating, creating echoes carried high over cavernous walls. Hearts beating, hands shaking, taking every waking thought to control, but it was corroding, corrupting…_ It had happened too fast.

_Dead._

He'd watched in fright as shards and shrapnel flew dangerously in all directions. Cassandra was already on the ground before Cullen had raised his shield, and Varric flew over her like a griffon surrounding a grey warden with great golden wings. At first, Cole thought the shockwave of the blast had pushed the Commander to the ground, but the force wasn't strong enough to have done so. The shrill song had sundered him, the memory of a taste trembling on his tongue…

He was suffering.

They had fallen in a matter of seconds, the spirit sensing instinctively that they needed help. Shaking, Cole gripped the stones and pulled himself upright, racing through the cell bars to lay calming hands on the Commander.

" _Samson_ ," he heard the man hiss, his features etched in a painful grimace. " _Maker's –"_

"No breaths," Cole warned, glancing over the polluted area, too toxic and tempting for an ex-templar to take. The air was hot with hanging lyrium dust and, thinking quickly, he reached a cool hand into Cullen's breast pocket to let him clamp a handkerchief over his face. "Don't look. Don't let it in. It's going to be okay."

To his left, Cassandra suddenly sat up and took in the scene, gasping as she realised the danger was not yet over. She looked down at the dwarf, who was mumbling curses in a dizzied haze, covered in glowing red pieces of the General, and sprung to action. Fuelled by a desperate need to protect him, she threw Varric over her shoulder and moved with long strides toward the stairs to bring him to safety.

Cole had to get Cullen out of there, too.

Draping the man's arm over his shoulder, he tried to rise with his weight, but it was too much and Cole struggled with his burden, practically dragging him along the floor. When at last he reached the foot of the stairs, he stopped and attempted to shift the man to make him easier to carry. It was no use; Cullen was too heavy.

"I can't lift you," the spirit pleaded with him, trying to pull him up the first step. He started and stopped several times before his anxieties grew, worried that soon the man would give in to the lyrium voices in his agony. "I can't help unless you stand! Please, get up!"

The Commander groaned, turning on the ground and fighting to get his feet under him. It was a painstaking task, his mind fighting unseen battles against silent temptation, and though he tried, Cole found that it wasn't enough.

Steps raced down toward them, and the boy looked up in time to see one of the scouts shut his eyes against the dust, the green scarf around his neck raised over his nose, reaching blindly for his superior. Guiding him, Cole joined their hands together and felt relief wash through him as both pulled an arm around their shoulders and hauled Cullen, his face now uncovered, up the stairs and out the door to the courtyard.

"Thank you," the spirit whispered to the man before lowering their burden to his knees in the snow. In an instant, the lion scooped the white powder with two large, calloused hands and buried his face in it, washing off the impurities before daring to breathe or open his eyes again.

Cassandra's amulet was singing, the Seeker standing over Varric while he shook the shards off and wiped his face clean. Feelings flaked off him too fast for Cole to fathom: fury, frustration, fear, franticness, all because their last hope for healing had died… And he heard him blame Cassandra.

Glancing up to meet her red, irritated eyes, Cole found her staring back at him, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath. The look on her face said more to him than words ever could, and his mouth fell open at the very moment he heard her think the unthinkable.

 _Don't,_ Cole begged her silently. _It's not too late._

Her brows drew together in remorse and she shook her head to clear it of the heartfelt plea. She wasn't convinced it was him who had said it and, putting on her soldierly mask, she took charge of the situation, effectively ignoring what she had silently resigned herself to do.

"Take the Commander and Varric to wash with cold water," Cassandra ordered the soldiers who approached to assist. "Make sure they have not suffered an injury. Don't burn their clothes; heat will only make the crystals grow. Shovel all the snow they touched and dispose of it outside the keep, ideally over a cliff."

"What about you, Seeker Pentaghast?" a brave soldier piped up.

She sighed and wiped the sweat from her brow, touching the amulet around her neck absently for reassurance. "I'm on clean-up. Send _no one_ to the dungeon until I have made it clear that it is safe again. Understood?"

"But the prisoner," another exclaimed in alarm, glancing toward the open door. "Isn't he still –"

"Samson is dead," she interrupted icily, storming back down the stairs without looking back. "Our concern is with the living."

As the stunned soldiers began to carry out her instructions, Cole followed on her heels, nervousness curling inside him like vines engulfing a stone. She shouldn't be here, even if she no longer believed it mattered. Still, he knew she would sooner risk herself than let a healthy man sweep up the shards strewn about the dungeon. The lyrium made him feel things – scary things – but that was all it could do to him. Yet there was still hope for her…

"You don't have to…" Cole's soft voice died away when she spun around in shock, apparently seeing him for the first time, but that couldn't be the case… could it? Hadn't she wondered how Cullen had made it out? _Oh, the other soldier,_ Cole reminded himself. Maybe she hadn't really been staring at him, or maybe she hadn't realised what – or who – she'd traded looks with up in the courtyard. It caught him off-guard, though, and he stammered through his reassurances. "I-I mean, I c-could… bury him for you."

She shook her head in confusion. "Cole…? When did you…?"

Shy and timid, the compassionate spirit's shoulders slumped, hiding beneath the wide brim of his hat. "Earlier, when they brought the sad templar man down after Dagna was done with her duties." Wilting slightly under her hard gaze, he hurriedly explained, "He was alone. His hurts were hard and very loud. I-I-I came to comfort, b-but… I didn't show myself… It's better that way. People don't remember that I'm here to help, but it doesn't matter, really. All that matters is making the misery go somewhere else, but the templar's torment was too tender to touch, so I…"

He drifted off again, noticing that Cassandra wasn't listening much, anyway. Following her glowing gaze, he saw that the cloud was settling onto the stone like a dusty red carpet, hot and heavy with hate. Samson's ashes mixed with the lyrium that had made up his body, scattered and broken, and there was so much of it…

In another life, another time, Cole – the _real_ Cole – had been taken by templars, hungry and hurting until Compassion came to him. Something like that had happened to this man: abandoned, abhorred, ashamed, in agony. And like Cole, a part of the prisoner had passed away, forcing a new entity to walk in his skin, wanting to right all the wrongs, to forget. What else could Cole do but feel sympathy for him? Even if he was a templar, he hadn't been like the ones who had hurt him…

But he didn't hurt anymore. Because just like the real Cole, he was gone now…

A long broom had fallen from its place against the wall, and Cassandra sighed while moving to pick it up from the floor, ready to go to work. "Thank you for not trying to reassure me, by the way," she muttered seriously, touching her amulet as it glowed softly on her chest. "I'm glad you aren't saying that it wasn't my fault."

Cole nodded in understanding. "It was," he spoke frankly, causing her to let out a guttural scoff he had learned to recognise as her derisive laugh. "Or your lyrium's. But still…"

"I know," she agreed, content to accept the blame for the prisoner's violent death as she began to sweep up the glasslike shards toward the opposite end of the dungeon. The far wall had crumbled away long ago, letting the wind and snow in to dance over the floors, where the bigger shards were dark and less angry.

"I can do that, Cassandra," he insisted, holding his hand out to take the broom she was wielding.

Shaking her head, she only said, "Just make sure I don't miss any of it. We'll sweep it out over the drop and be done with it."

His hand falling away, concern darkened the spirit's pale features. She felt responsible for the mess and wanted to make it better. He could accept that in a way, but worried about why she was risking herself more than she needed to. Looking for something to do, the boy spotted Varric's crossbow on the floor where they had fallen, and he shuffled over to pick the weapon up by the stock, blowing the crimson dust from it as he gently placed it by the stairs. Then he did the same with Cullen's sword and shield before turning back to watch Cassandra sweep up the remnants of a life newly lost.

Cole could see it in her empty eyes, and even if he'd never heard her think it, he would have known for sure in that moment.

Samson was her last hope for a cure. And with the General now dead from the same curse in her blood, Cassandra knew that she wouldn't be far behind…

**~oOo~**

If he hadn't already sobered up half an hour ago, this undignified cold shower on the outskirts of Skyhold in the dead of night would have done just the trick. Varric was shaking, and not only from the bracing chill of the water being lobbed at him.

The next bucket was dropped straight over his head, puckering his skin and freezing the contours of his skull, ginger hair turning auburn as it cascaded over his face and plastered his long tunic over his torso, not leaving much to the imagination. Shivering in place, he ran a hand over his scalp and pushed his hair back in time for another drenching. This wasn't worth the trouble.

"Knock it off!" He fussed and threw his arms up over his head, snatching the iron bucket away before the soldier could refill it again. "Andraste's ass, you'd think you sadistic bastards were enjoying this!"

Wordlessly, one of the soldiers handed Varric a much-used, oddly-scented bar of soap and placed another full bucket down by his feet. With a grumble, he dipped the grimy bar into the water and started scrubbing his bare legs to work up a lather.

Another bucket had been filled and dumped, but it wasn't over the dwarf this time. Cullen sat with his legs tucked beneath him, hugging his thick arms tightly over his chest as he looked down at his knees, fighting the cold by curling in on himself and rocking so subtly that Varric doubted the soldiers could register it through their swift, panicked movements.

"Ser?" One of his men prompted him, anxiously waiting for more direction.

Cullen looked up through the curls on his forehead, his honeyed eyes bloodshot yet firm. "Again, Jim," he commanded, muscles going rigid in anticipation of the coming splash. He didn't have any cuts or scrapes that Varric could see, which made his order all the more perplexing.

Dutifully, Jim refilled the bucket from the watering trough and hauled it back, holding it by the handle and the bottom rim to aim the water squarely at Cullen's chest.

" _Damnit_ , Jim, I'm a _Commander_ , not a _Lay_ _Sister_ ," he barked, shaking with frustration. " _Again!_ This time, do your job _properly!_ I can handle it!"

The frantic soldier hurried to comply, refilling the bucket before Cullen had finished his tirade and standing before him, sending the water crashing against his face.

" _Better_ ," Cullen coughed, wiping icy drops from his nose and chin. " _Again_."

 _What the hell is going on with him?_ The soldiers had been at it until their arms were sore, and _still_ he was demanding more. "That shit's already gone, Curly," Varric observed, pausing in his washing to stare at his old acquaintance in puzzlement. "There's no reason to keep punishing yourself."

The man didn't acknowledge his statement, appearing to look inward instead, melancholy evident in his trembling voice. "…Maker, what have I _done_ …?" He whispered close to his chest, the muscles of his arms vibrating to restore warmth to his bones.

The dwarf's brows shot up in surprise, mirroring the faces of the three recruits. "Hey, keep it together," he muttered in a gruff tone. "Don't lose your grip on reality now."

"I was in a position to advocate for Samson's reinstatement back in Kirkwall," the Commander lamented aloud, rubbing blue hands over his arms for either warmth or comfort. "I could have challenged the Knight-Commander on it, but I… _agreed_ with her decision. I agreed with Meredith on a lot of things – _too_ many things before I was wise to her! All of this could have been avoided if I hadn't despised the mages for what Uldred –"

As he spoke, Varric lifted his own bucket and dropped it over Cullen's hair, dousing him with another gallon of icy water, causing the man to gasp in surprise. Throwing the bucket aside with a muffled _clang!_ on the ground, he promptly grabbed the human by the collar of his shirt, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"Varric, what are you –"

"You wanna compare screw-ups?" The dwarf challenged him, prepared to offer the man some much-needed perspective. "Curly, I've got a laundry list of regrets so long, the recounting of it all could singlehandedly make a despair demon blush! Don't _make_ me stand here on the ass-end of an ice cube and count them off to you one by one just to make you feel better, because I'm not the kind of guy to admit my failures to the whole world, much _less_ that I had anything personally to do with them!" Incredulous laughter threatened to overtake him as he voiced his next thought. "You _actually_ think you could have changed any of the shit that went down tonight?! Take it from me: the past can't be tampered with, even in print, no matter how much blame you try to hoist on yourself."

Cullen's eyes darted back and forth, searching for more ways in which he could pin the state of Thedas on his own back. "Maybe not, but if I hadn't been so callous toward the mages, I could have deescalated tensions between Meredith and Orsino before the Mage Rebellion broke out. It was _my_ Order that joined Samson and allied with Corypheus," he insisted. "If I'd helped him seek treatment or at _least_ gotten him off the streets instead of casting him out of the Gallows with nothing, perhaps it never would have come this far."

"That wouldn't have stopped the Rebellion and _you_ _know it. Come_ on, Curly, _think!_ It wasn't just _our_ Circle struggling against those giant chains. Have you _spoken_ to the Kid lately? It was bad in Kirkwall; it was bad in Val Royeaux; it was bad _all over_." He loosened his grip on Cullen's shirt, but the man continued to stare at him, wholly at a loss for how to respond. "Anders was right about one thing: it would have happened one way or another," he sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired face. "He just lit the fuse, in the most literal sense of the word _._ "

The recruits at his back had fallen into an uncomfortable silence for the duration of their unique reminiscence on old times, but at least Cullen seemed to be coming out of his unusual state of mind. Or maybe it _was_ usual, but he'd just never given voice to his guilt in front of Varric before. Like Broody, the man probably had good reason to be distrustful of mages in general, and although he doubted it would have altered much if he'd had a change of heart earlier, at least he was willing to admit he was wrong in hindsight. Maybe with a little counselling from someone better suited for this, Cullen could come to grips with whatever horrendous shit had happened to him.

While lost in thought, Jim and the others had apparently decided they were overdue for another round of washing, and the two were freshly assaulted once more with a few more buckets for good measure, bringing them back around to the present.

"…Look," Varric shivered, coming to himself and stepping back to shake himself off, "we've all got problems. That's all I wanted to say, but I got a little carried away. That shit back there got to both of us, and what happened to Samson was… super awful. His was a fate I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, but you did everything you could. Just being _around_ red lyrium is enough to screw with your head, so don't believe the shit that happens to cross your mind, right now."

Cullen wrung out his shirttails, deep in pensive thought. "So… you don't think Andraste chose a mage as her Herald to punish me for my past transgressions, then?"

Despite the night he'd had, the merchant prince allowed a small, rueful laugh to escape his throat, a puff of air misting before his face. "You know what? If she shares her Husband's dry sense of humour, I wouldn't put anything past her."

As he shuffled over the snow and retrieved the soap, applying lather to his hair to rid himself of any lingering lyrium dust, Cullen just _had_ to bring up the one thing he'd hoped to avoid for as long as possible:

"With Samson dead, things aren't looking good for Cassandra," he said, his statement bereft of all hope. "You're the red lyrium expert. Do you have a plan for what we should do?"

Varric winced, closing his eyes tightly upon realising he was all out of ideas on that front.

"Yeah," he whispered, unable to disguise the hoarseness in his throat as his heart tore in two. "Pray for a miracle."

**~oOo~**

The candle illuminating the pages under her nose nearly blew out with every deep breath she let out, striving for control over the temper that was so infamous among her fellow Antivans. Light spilled in through the high windows, screaming the hour to her so clearly that she had trouble biting her tongue. Those standing around her at the war table gave her a wide berth, choosing to remain silent as she slowly read their reports with all the care of a binding contract.

"How could this _happen?_ " Josephine at last broke the quiet anxiety permeating through the War Room. Though she'd been breathless as she whispered her enraged disbelief, it might as well have been a roar based on their reactions.

Laying an aimless hand on the hilt of his sword to still his nervous twitches, Cullen attempted to assist. "W-what part of my report is troubling you, Ambassador?"

Green eyes wide with a sudden madness, she snapped, "For _starters_ , Commander, I'm shocked that _no one_ here thought to inform me until _ten minutes_ before our midday council!"

The Spymaster traded a significant look with Cullen then, causing Josephine's blood to boil. "We wanted to piece the events together before presenting them to –"

"Pardon me, I did not find _your_ name in these reports, Leliana," she glared heatedly, noting the racing of her heart as she confronted her friend and tossed the parchments like trash upon the table. "Why were _you_ made aware of this while _I_ was left in the dark for so long?!"

"Because I couldn't keep it from her if I'd bricked it into a _wall_ ," the man nearly sneered, now fully aware of the effectiveness of Leliana's spy network.

Affronted, the Orlesian lowered her thin brows his way. "You shouldn't have tried, Cullen. I have a right to know what goes on in –"

"Samson was a member of _my_ former Order! Forgive me for taking a little time to process –"

"He was no longer a templar, and neither are you! You may be a Commander, but information must _always_ be shared between us! I mean, _my goodness_ , of all the things _not_ to tell me –"

"Do _not_ pretend you haven't surprised us with intel in the past, Josie –"

"The difference is that when _I_ come across crucial intelligence, _you_ know about it within _moments_ , not _half a day later!_ Andraste preserve me, I have _never_ been so insulted in this room!"

Cassandra stared at the fiery trio in bemusement, detached from their continued arguing despite her direct involvement in its cause. She managed a small smirk to her left, and the dwarf mirrored it absentmindedly before doing a slight double-take at her expression, as if he was simultaneously surprised and comforted by her acknowledgment. Looking back across the table upon hearing their voices rise in volume and intensity, Varric took a tentative step back, casting his eyes about the room with a look of awkward discomfort while they shouted over one another to make their points.

Given what had occurred during his last summons here, he hadn't been eager to step foot inside the grand room again, and though both had attempted to excuse themselves several times before the meeting was called to order, Cullen had reminded them that they owed him the roles of backup for risking himself to assist them. As it stood, the two kept a safe distance from the fight and sealed their lips to avoid getting involved, shrugging and shaking their heads whenever the Commander shot them pointed glares. Cassandra was sure she had distinctly heard Cullen mutter the phrase "bloody traitors" when it was clear they weren't about to jump in to spare him Josephine's wrath.

"…This is a disaster! I work tirelessly to ensure the Inquisition's image is pristine! When this becomes public knowledge, we'll be branded as a brutal regime skirting justice to exact cold revenge on our enemies!" She smacked the board cradled in her arms down on the table to join the parchments, leaning over it as the air around her practically vibrated.

"I'm sure they never planned on killing him, Josie," Leliana reminded her in exasperation, distracting herself by adjusting a gauntlet. Casting a dry glance over her shoulder, the Spymaster arched a brow and rolled her eyes before turning her attention back to her forearm. "The Maker had _other_ ideas, apparently – if he had anything to do with it at all."

"Of _course_ we didn't want to harm him," Cullen's scarred lip turned up in disgust, ignoring the fact that Cassandra had been fairly adamant on the idea at the time. "Far from it! He was a valuable asset to me and…" Without thinking, his gaze darted to the Seeker before he caught himself and looked away. Swallowing hard, he straightened and continued, "I had every intention of preserving his life, but there was nothing I could do for him by the time I arrived."

The lid over the proverbial pot flew off, and with unusually quick strides, the Antivan was in front of the Fereldan, challenging a man more than a head taller than her and nearly matching her weight in muscle mass alone. "And when have intentions _ever_ been relevant to how we are perceived outside these walls? A man has died in _our_ custody! Chancellor Roderick's accusations did not simply vanish after his death. Those sentiments of distrust are still whispered throughout Thedas, and unlike _you_ , it is _my_ duty to convince the doubters of our nobler purposes!" A finger planting itself squarely in the middle of his chest, Josephine's eyes all but erupted in white-hot flames. "The damage this will do to us _cannot_ be dismissed! Can you even _fathom_ the time this incident will demand of me just to smooth over international tensions?!"

Losing patience at the thought of explaining himself to elitists with no notion of the struggles of the real world, the Commander pursed his lips in aggravation. "It's not as if they can have us disbanded over our enemy's top General _dying._ They can't possibly be so out of touch that they don't understand what war entails!"

Her lids flew wide, immediately taking a breath to spit out yet another retort, but the words skidded to a halt in her throat before she had the chance to utter them, the colour fading from her face as she made an effort to control herself. Stepping away, Josephine massaged the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger roughly, dark brows furrowing in a deep frown. "Everyone _stop_ ," she insisted, holding up a hand as she began to pace. "Give me a moment to consider this carefully, please…"

The break from their lively discussion was welcome, allowing time for them to think of a strategy rather than run around in circles over the same bleak issues. As the Antivan gathered up the reports and placed them back on her board, a measure of calmness had at last won out over her more manic emotions, which then spread through the others to a great degree of relief for both Cassandra and Varric.

"Surely, we can disguise Samson's cause of death," Leliana posed her recommendation in a sombre voice to keep the peace. "He said so himself at his own judgment: without Corypheus to stave off the corruption, he knew his end would be imminent. The fact that he announced this at his sentencing works to our advantage, and will seem quite credible."

Slowly, Josephine turned on her heel, folding her arms over the board she now held to her chest, the flame of her red candle long-since extinguished. "Are you suggesting a cover-up?" She asked, her tone low and implying further disapproval.

Leliana joined her hands at the small of her back and sighed, lowering her chin and casting her eyes to the floor in deep thought. "Not much would need to be omitted," she explained cautiously, aware of the implications of her words. "After all, he _did_ succumb to the red lyrium in the end. That much is true, and no mention of Cassandra or her involvement need be included," she nodded toward the Seeker habitually. "The powers that be will have no choice but to believe the events as we lay them out…"

Varric stepped forward again to join the fold. "Nightingale _does_ have a point, there. If we stick to the truth as much as possible, nobody would even know where to look for the rest of the story. I've done it before," he added, a hand gesturing toward Cassandra in neat illustration of what he meant. Avoiding the side-eye she threw him, the dwarf shrugged, "Mind the cliché, but it works like a charm."

"And what if the truth comes out?" Josephine shifted her stern gaze from Varric to Cullen instantly. "What then?"

Inclined toward Leliana's solution, the Commander straightened, his confidence renewed. "I can deal with that if it transpires, but I doubt it'll be an issue."

Scoffing, Josephine shook her head, the waves of her loose hair brushing her cheekbones gently. "You cannot send a garrison to intimidate the nobility into siding with us, Cullen. That will only serve to solidify the image they'll have constructed in their minds…" She closed her eyes in disappointment. "An image we've rightly earned."

Laying a friendly hand on her shoulder, Leliana reassured her, "You aren't giving yourself enough credit, Josie. This isn't beyond your capabilities, and I can work behind the scenes to assist any way I can, although I don't anticipate a challenge at this late stage. Our victory is close at hand. There will be other, more pressing matters demanding their attention."

She pressed her lips to a fine line, various scenarios undoubtedly playing out in her mind. "You know Orlais as well as I do, Leliana. If we are not careful in how we choose to proceed…" An exhausted sigh escaped her throat as the Spymaster's hand fell away. "Mistress Lavellan should really be here to make the decision herself."

"…Would you like me to send word to her in Crestwood?" Leliana offered, hoping to alleviate her friend's concerns. "I can have a raven dispatched to her by sunset if it would put you at ease."

"No," she held up a hand at this, "I would not dare burden her while she is enjoying her holiday with Solas… Lady Cassandra," she turned to the Seeker, waiting for the woman to realise she was being addressed directly, "what do you think of this… proposal?" The way she'd uttered the last word made her feelings on the matter obvious.

Usually quite vocal at these meetings, the Seeker's input thus far had been a glaring absence from the proceedings. Cassandra's mouth opened and closed without sound for a moment before she took a breath to gather her thoughts, glancing between the Advisors as they awaited her opinion. "It would not be the first time something this inconvenient to an organisation was swept under a rug and forgotten about," she said plainly enough, noticing the way Josephine's brow relaxed once recognising she had been outvoted. "Many key players wanted Samson dead. I have faith that the news will be more of a relief to the world than a scandal. Should it not sit well, we have enough good-standing in the surrounding nations to withstand the worst of any criticism thrown at us."

Nodding once at her calculated insight, Josephine hunched into her shoulders slightly, tucking a soft black curl behind her ear. "…I suppose this _is_ the best course of action, given our limited options." Glancing down at the reports she held, she paused to give the woman across from her a sympathetic look. "You seem quite relaxed, considering the gruesome nature of what happened last night," she observed, tilting her head to the side in an inviting manner. "I am sorry for what you have been through. I imagine you were affected more… personally by General Samson's death…"

Her angled brows drawing together defensively, Cassandra folded her arms over the Seekers' emblem on her chest. "Why _should_ I have been?"

Her sharp response garnered confused reactions, and even those whom hadn't been facing the warrior turned to gawk oddly at her. Varric, who until then had been occupying himself with the cuffs of his red coat, froze in his adjustments and craned his neck to look up at her, his face making it plain that he disbelieved either his ears or her bristly answer, or both. Closing her eyes to focus inward for a time, Cassandra finally took a breath and offered another, more measured reply, amending her previous tone.

"To tell the truth, Ambassador, I feel fine." Varric tried to disguise a huff of scepticism unsuccessfully, bringing forth a defiant glare from the warrior. " _Better_ than fine, actually. I feel… _revitalised_. The pain has been greatly relieved, and not once since the dungeon have I experienced any surges. Honestly, I haven't felt this confident since we apprehended Duchess Florianne at Halamshiral."

At that, wary looks were exchanged between the dwarf to her left and the Advisors before her, their silent communication so thoroughly ridiculous that she might've laughed under different circumstances. She could clearly _see_ them; they must have known how obvious they were being. There was no hiding their apparent unease at Cassandra's revelation, and she lowered her hands to grip her hips in annoyance. "Does my improved health _disappoint_ you?"

Leliana's piercing blue eyes met her hard stare, urging her to reflect more carefully. "Cassandra, don't you think that it's somewhat _unusual_ , considering recent events?"

"I'm not going to _complain_ that for once I'm not writhing in unspeakable pain," she retorted dismissively. "What happened to Samson was…" Images from the previous night flashed before her eyes, a harsh reminder of the horrors possibly in store for her. She tried to brush them off as quickly as they came to mind, but in truth, they had affected her more than she was willing to admit aloud. "I-it was…"

Showing mercy, Varric made his skills available to her, finding the words the Seeker had trouble conveying. "It was a shit-show," he described the scene in a manner true to his nature. "But at least we're all in one piece – well, most of us," he winced, biting the inside of his cheek roughly. "Sorry. Should've thought through that part a little longer."

Grateful for a break in the serious tone the meeting had adopted, Cullen managed a gentle smirk. "Well, I'm happy you were there, in any case, Varric. It might've been worse without you to talk me through the aftermath."

"No problem, Curly," he replied automatically, tapping a finger against the hard leather of his belt to dispel the awkwardness. "I wasn't _that_ much help after all hell broke loose, but I'll happily steal most of the credit." He glanced up at his taller friends, his brows raised as he waited for a word of dismissal that didn't appear to be coming. Things seemed fairly wrapped up at this point to Cassandra as well, so she too gave a parting nod at the Advisors, ready to make a getaway.

"Cullen was most fortunate that you were there to assist, Varric," Josephine interrupted their departure in her sing-song accent, now watching the two on the other side of the table with marked interest. "Your report does not state why you were available at that hour, however. Were you on your way to your quarters when you ran into the Commander? It must have been _quite_ a night in the tavern, if so."

Her charm disarmed him in an instant, and a coy smile painted itself on his thin lips. "Oh, I'd called it a night a good while before that," the dwarf shrugged humbly. "I just so happened to wake up and notice the Seeker wasn't in –"

Varric's mouth shut instinctively, eyes rounding for the fraction of a second as he realised he'd talked himself into a tight corner. "I, uh… shit." He couldn't recover fast enough, rubbing the stubble on his chin and glancing up at Cassandra apologetically, a grin pulling at the Ambassador's lips as she watched him squirm.

"You were in her quarters?" Leliana was taken aback, her eyes resting in astonishment on the woman in question. The Spymaster had discouraged further relations between them previously, and was now improperly assuming they had resumed.

Her mouth falling open lamely, Cassandra's heart thundered against her ribcage, adding a slight tremble to her words. "Y-yes, but we were not sleeping…" She paused to breathe, since she'd forgotten to do so before starting, and had left them enough time to let their imaginations wander. "I mean, we _were_ sleeping, but not _together,_ or in the same…" Maker, this wasn't coming out right. She started again, "Varric and I were not…"

Josephine tried to hide her pleased smile beneath her palm while the Seeker tripped over herself, both striving for composure. " _Ahem._ Well, Ms. Davri _has_ been properly dealt with, according to Madame Vivienne's most recent update… Does that mean you have decided to resume your courtship?"

" _No_ ," they chimed as one, both laughing nervously as they shifted in their discomfort.

" _Well_ ," Varric shrugged deeply, garnering a quick look of panic from the Seeker. "'Courtship' is a strong –"

"Of _course_ not," Cassandra waved a hand in dismissal. "We haven't –"

"Decided one way or the other, yet," he cut in hurriedly. "Look, we know you're all not too fond of the idea. Honestly, the Seeker and I are just –"

"We're _not_. I was unaware that he was even _present_ until I left, and we're _not_ seeing one another again." She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks, a ragged breath escaping her throat, and she laughed to disguise it. " _Ugh_ , don't be ridiculous," Cassandra breathed, her upper lip twitching involuntarily.

" _Hey_. Come on, now," the dwarf at her side muttered, taking her overzealous disgust at the very notion to heart.

"Erm…Very well," Cullen moved past their bewildering exchange, extending a gloved hand toward Josephine. "I'll take my report and redact the information we previously discussed."

"Oh, yes, where is my mind today?" The Antivan hastily thumbed through the paperwork, divvying out the three written statements. "If everyone could do likewise and submit your revised copies to my assistant for review as soon as possible, I shall be most grateful. Lady Cassandra, under the circumstances, you are of course excused from this exercise. And," she added with a grimace, "by all means, do burn these copies… No need to risk the wrong person picking them out of a waste basket."

As soon as she had hers in hand, Cassandra ripped the small stack in two and turned toward the large double doors, eager to escape the inexplicable feeling of claustrophobia creeping over her.

"I'll have mine for you by morning, Ruffles," Varric said over his shoulder as he parted, his bootsteps closing in on her from behind as she reached the door and pulled the handle. She didn't bother holding the door open for him once she'd passed through.

"Uh – hold up, Seeker," he called out to her, shoving the heavy door back before it could crash into him. "I wanted to ask you something."

Her steps didn't slow as she made her way down the hall, wanting to be anywhere else but here. "If this is about 'resuming' our 'courtship', I'm not interested," she barked, rolling her eyes out of view.

"No, it's not – Wait, really?" His steps faltered ever so slightly before he quickened his pace and caught her arm, trying to get her to face him. "I know we haven't talked about it, but I thought we were making some headway after Val Royeaux…"

The dismay in his gravelly tone hit harder than she was prepared to deal with, causing her to turn toward him, though she kept eye contact minimal at best. "You ended what we had and left me to recover entirely on my own, remember?" Shifting her weight from one hip to the other, she crossed her arms to stop herself from awkwardly tucking her cropped hair behind her ears. "I mean… _Shit_ , Varric, it's not that easy to just dismiss…" Adamant on keeping her eyes from meeting his, she focused instead on the floor, determined not to be swayed by whatever feelings he might be wearing on his sleeve.

An uncomfortable silence permeated the heavy atmosphere, but eventually he exhaled a controlled breath, beginning a wandering pace while thinking aloud. "Yeah, I'll admit, that wasn't exactly my finest hour," he confessed, berating himself inwardly for his numerous past mistakes. He stopped at her side, a hand hovering uncertainly near the fingers resting on her arm as he fought the desire to touch her. Swallowing a bitter taste in his mouth, he turned away, running a thumb under his nose as if to satisfy a non-existent itch instead. "Just… don't make up your mind, yet. Give me another shot at this…"

She had to admit: there was a large part of her heart that broke at hearing how desperately he held out hope for her to come around. Sweet memories flowed back in a steady stream to assault the walls she had built at the forefront of her mind to push him away, remembering solid hands and muffled words, romance penned for her eyes only, endearing and tender to the last. And Maker, how she desired that closeness again…

All she had to do was say so, and Varric would be in her arms, the familiar scratch of his stubble once again brushing against her cheek, the reassuring solidness of his hold around her like a waking dream…

But movement caught her eyes then, and in confusion, she followed the disturbance and found the War Room door ajar, a familiar face peeking out with a somewhat trapped expression frozen on it at having been spotted.

"Oh, Maker – Excuse me, I didn't –" His stuttering prevented him from revealing that he was waiting for the all-clear to leave, not wanting to interrupt their intimate conversation by walking past. "I'll just… wait in here, I suppose." Cullen skulked back in embarrassment, clicking the door closed and granting them privacy once more.

Cassandra could imagine the Commander pressing his back against the wood, breathlessly explaining the awkward position he was in to Leliana and Josephine, and she had to pinch herself to keep a humoured smile at bay. Luckily, Cullen's unintentional appearance offered Cassandra the chance she needed to reclaim her thoughts and steer the conversation away from the romantic impulses that had seized it.

"What did you want to ask?" She cleared her throat, simultaneously relieved and heartbroken to move past the forgiveness she'd nearly granted him.

She could see Varric searching his mind for the answer, setting his worries for their strained relationship aside in order to address his initial concerns. The moment had passed, and there was no recovering it, now. "Oh. Yeah. Listen, I know you don't want to hear this, but something you said back there stuck with me," he muttered, scrutinising her mannerisms for clues to the truth. "Are you _really_ feeling okay, or was that another one of your not-so-subtle dodges?"

His words landed like a strike across her face, hearing only the accusation rather than the apprehension he so blatantly intended. Unwilling or unable to express her passions to him, she instead chose bitterness, again pushing him further away. "Would you rather I still _suffer_ so you can continue to play _hero?!_ "

His eyes rounded. "Wha… – Wait, so if I'm _not_ there for you, I'm a heartless ass, and if I _am_ , I'm _grandstanding?_ " Grumbling, Varric held up his hands in surrender, as he so often had done when she was more prone to physical violence towards him. The old gesture's unexpected return made her flinch. "All I'm saying is that your condition _improving_ goes against _everything_ I know about red lyrium," he insisted grouchily, miffed at her propensity to focus on the negative of whatever he said. "If I know you _at all_ , you should be… I don't know, _suspicious_ about why that is. The fact that you're not is… frankly, super terrifying."

His concerns rang true, a slight catch in his voice revealing the sinking fear he felt on her behalf. Cassandra hugged her arms tighter, restraining herself as much as possible as a dilemma presented itself in her mind. Should she tell him what Raleigh Samson had said to her in his final moments, or would she shield him from all the ugliness of last night he had not witnessed, keeping secret the very reason she wasn't mystified by her lack of suffering…?

Regardless of all, she knew Varric would never understand why she had chosen this path. He would sooner lose his shit over it than ever be convinced that she had done what was best for herself, taking the advisement of the enemy over those of a man who clearly still loved her…

"…I'll not spend the remainder of my short time questioning what little respite the Maker grants me," she decided, crushing the torn papers of her report in her grasp. "I will trust in Him, and give my all to aid the Inquisition to my dying breath. That is enough for me."

She could see the vein on his temple swelling, frustration and denial mounting within him, and he lashed out, throwing his arms wide. "You're just _giving up?_ " Sneering in disbelief, he poked at her further, hoping to garner a reaction that more resembled the feisty woman he thought he knew. "Damn it, Seeker, don't you want a _life_ after this shit is over?"

"I don't expect to _have_ one," she hit back, arms dropping and forming fists at her sides, her report now nothing more than a crumpled ball of wasted time. "What _good_ would it do me to invest my heart in what will _never_ come to pass?"

He hated it whenever she brought up her mortality like that. His worn face dropped at her words, which had stabbed him right where they did the most damage, and had caused him to step away slowly. "…Forget it, then," he surrendered, abruptly ending the argument by heading toward the other end of the hall. "If you don't care, why the hell should I?"

"Like you know what it means to _care_ , beyond knowing words strictly as a matter of business!"

Cassandra was aware of what she was doing: throwing unfounded insults out as a means to make him stay and argue his views. She _wanted_ him to care, wanted to hear him say so, to turn around and prove it once and for all by kissing her as honestly as he had in the gardens of the Ghislain estate, or in the wild romanticism of the Emerald Graves…

But as he strode on, ignoring her attempt to suck him back in, the Seeker glared and followed after him, emboldened. "What's _this?_ Ending the interrogation so soon?" Desperate for him to come back, she taunted, "Don't you want the last word? Go on, _Varric_ , I'm all ears!"

Catching her scathing tone, he threw it right back at her as he shoved the door to Josephine's office wide in resentment. "I'm saving it for your eulogy," he spat bitterly.

The door slammed after him, the boom echoing loudly through the grand hallway, and she froze in shock, staring at the wood that had come to a halt mere centimetres from her nose.

Her plan had backfired spectacularly. It wasn't like Cassandra to seek to manipulate him with such an underhanded attack on his character – not anymore, that is. Where had _that_ come from? Replaying their exchange, she had to admit that she had been spiteful, antagonistic, even hurtful in the hopes of forcing him to play on her passions, when all he had tried to be was concerned and caring… And the guilt set in immediately. The corruption inside her ran deeper than she ever imagined, making her say and do things against even her own wishes.

Andraste's sake, could she even _blame_ the red lyrium for that dark shift at all, or was she truly, as Bianca Davri had so aptly put it back in Valammar, being a bitch?

Well, _fine_ , then. If she desired a specific result, then she would have to get it _herself_. Shaking off the thought of Varric suffering whiplash from yet another shift in her attitude out of nowhere, she swallowed her pride and opened the door to Josephine's reception area, storming through –

"Meeting's over, I take it?" a deep voice thrummed.

She jumped practically out of her armour, the surprise too great to mask in time. To her left and down the steps, Blackwall was placing a shimmering vase of brightly-coloured wildflowers on the mahogany desk, leaning over to place the final additions in his meticulous arrangement. Her gaze wandering to the window, she noticed a larger crystalline vase with roses, honeysuckle, and pine cuttings, the crystal throwing a spectrum of colours to the rug and bookcases around them. A fire had been lit to warm the cold stone room for Lady Montilyet's return, and she wondered if he'd also gone to the trouble of fuelling it for her in her absence. The air was awash with relaxing scents, instantly captivating her enough to put her at ease, her mind silently winding down after all that had transpired in the last twenty or so minutes.

Turning to study her, a bushy black brow raised over one blue eye as Blackwall cocked his head toward the door to the main hall in indication. "You two at it again?" he asked, an oddly sad smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "Hard to say whether that means all is well or that all hell's breaking loose."

There was something in the way he had jested that managed to shatter a large brick in Cassandra's proverbial wall, which came quite unexpectedly. Perhaps it was the calming fragrances, or the sincerity in his expression, or even the endearing joke at her relationship's expense, but she was in an instant at total ease, welcoming the lulling power of his deep bass as her heartrate slowed to something resembling normal.

Her wits once more gathered about her, the Seeker took the pair of stairs slowly down to his level, approaching the desk where the would-be warden stood, the man placing a thin wooden rod with a finely carved butterfly on the top end carefully into the bouquet. "…This would look lovely as a pin in her hair," he said to himself. He seemed to remember that she could hear him, and he drew his hands behind his back and cleared his throat, straightening himself in a dignified manner.

"It would," Cassandra agreed, touching the intricate carving gently. The wings were so thin that she pulled back out of concern that she might damage it irreparably. Curious, she glanced up at him, noticing the soft blush staining his cheeks just below the thick beard. "Blackwall," she wondered, adopting a measure of tact for what she was about to say, "you know Josephine cannot simply call off her engagement for someone like…"

The light dawned on him then, and she saw him steel himself with a deep sigh. "Like me," he finished for her, noting her hesitation and forgiving it in one breath. "For someone like me, you mean."

She felt the need to explain herself almost apologetically, her eyes darting back to the flowers he'd spent all morning picking and arranging for his unrequited love. They looked just like the flowers in the grove, where she and Varric had shared that blissfully romantic evening under the stars... Clearing her throat, she went on, "In the end, if all goes to plan, Josephine will return home to resume her family business… and you will join the Grey Wardens at Weisshaupt." She met his light blue eyes, aware of the sadness that always seemed to be present, yet wondering if she had caused it to reappear this time… But she had to know the truth. "Why do you pursue her when there is clearly no chance at true happiness between you…?"

She saw his throat bob as he swallowed, his brows drawing together as he… studied her? Is that what he was doing? Was there something behind what she was asking that had more meaning than she'd originally intended?

"…I'm not delusional, Cassandra," Blackwall said a touch above a whisper. Truly, it was the way he had said it that struck her most: not with bitterness or regret, not taking offence to her prying questions. He was open, honest, even compassionate as he explained to her, "I know the Ambassador would never see me as anything more than, at best, a deeply flawed man," he smirked sadly. "You're right: we're very different people leading two completely separate lives. But…" And at this, the soft smile brushing the lips half-hidden beneath his moustache altered, the warrior reaching over to adjust the position of the vase to the Antivan noblewoman's liking. "Josephine deserves beauty in her life. Especially when everything she faces on a day-to-day basis is enough to break a lesser woman's spirit…" He satiated his perfectionist urges and nodded to himself, facing her fully. "If I can brighten her day a little, make her troubles easier to bear, or even just take away her tension headaches with a bit of lavender every once in a while, then that's good enough… At the end of the day, it's not really about me, is it?"

There was a selflessness to his sentiment, and she was momentarily stunned that he was willing to take time out of his own busy life just to sweeten someone else's, all the while expecting nothing in return. Touched by Blackwall's admission, Cassandra felt her heart sink within her.

"How kind of you… Whether she's aware of it or not, Josephine is a lucky woman to have someone so thoughtful looking after her." Searching for an excuse to make her exit, she walked to the fire and threw the crumpled parchments of her report in, watching to make sure they caught the flames before turning to go. "…I should be so lucky."

She had taken no more than a couple of steps when she heard the amazement in his voice call after her. "What in the bloody hell are you talking about?"

Pausing mid-stride, the Seeker pivoted slowly on a heel, but before she could open her mouth to remark on his tone toward her, he jumped in. "Maker's Balls, Cass, you can't be – Wait, were you _actually_ being serious, or do you really not see what Varric does for you near-on _every day?_ He might not give you roses or carvings or scented oils, but I'm good at those things and he's not. Make no mistake, though: Varric does the same for you that I do for Josephine. He just has different methods of going about it."

Cassandra's face contorted to a laughably dubious expression before it fell blank again, her mind traversing the things she'd witnessed around the dwarf without initially giving them proper context. "Oh," she realised meekly, suddenly overcome with contrition. "… _Swords and Shields_ …"

"When he sees your smile light up while you're reading the stuff he wrote just for you… Maker, he just… I know he can't get enough of that," Blackwall confirmed, defending his friend just as fervently now as he would in the heat of battle. "He works on it day-in, day-out. Even last night in the tavern, he was writing between hands of diamondback and mugs of ale. Sometimes, he's passing out by midday because he was up all night trying to craft something you'd love. What you might read in half an hour, keep in mind it took him days, even weeks to put together, and he's constantly making tiny notes on every scrap he can find to save his ideas… And that's just _one_ of the things he does for no fucking compensation… Pardon my commoner's tongue," he all but chuckled derisively, striding past her for the door. Shaking his head at her ignorance, wilful or not, he reached out and placed his glove on the handle.

"What else does he do?"

He turned to face her again, dumbfounded.

"You said the writing was just _one_ thing," she clarified, her arms stiff and uncomfortable at her sides. "What are the others?"

He threw a hand out and let it fall to his side. "Well, there's the small matter of scouring the fucking world for a cure to that red lyrium inside you," he shrugged, his entire body language screaming his obvious facetiousness, "but who's to say if that's out of love? Maybe _he_ just wants to be the one to kill you."

Out of nowhere, she laughed softly, surprising not only Blackwall, but Cassandra herself. Hiding her smile behind the deep purples of her leather glove, she bit her lip and allowed herself a small admittance. "I apologise," she sighed, closing her eyes. "I haven't been myself, lately. Or perhaps the problem lies in the fact that I actually _have_." Pursing her lips in consternation, her fingers laced together over her abdomen as if confessing her sins to a priestess. "Blackwall, this… 'experience' has been unlike anything I've ever faced, and I'm starting to realise just how blind it has made me to the efforts of those closest to me. I have focused inward for far too long, to the detriment of everyone else, and that was selfish. Truly, I'm afraid I might have permanently severed ties with Varric, and it pains me to think I could have just ruined any hope of recovering what we once had."

That had all just been laid bare, hadn't it? _Why can't I say these things to Varric?_ she scolded herself. _He_ should be the one to hear this, but instead, she was telling the only other known liar in the Inner Circle. " _Ugh_ , how could I have been so stupid?" She kicked herself, feeling extremely down at present.

The door to her back clicked open, bringing their attention toward the grand hallway. "Oh, sweet Maker, not again," the Commander blasphemed, unable to believe his poor luck. "I'm sorry, I'll –"

"It's fine, Cullen," Cassandra interrupted with her reassurance. "Come through." Meeting Blackwall's eyes, she sent over her unspoken request that he not reveal what she had said to anyone.

He read her loud and clear, and as the red mantle of the Commander breezed through the room, the warrior commented, "What's that old saying, Cullen? 'It's not over till it's over'?" He sent the Seeker a wink and a smile, promising to do as she'd silently asked, yet still giving a clear response to her confession regardless. "Sound advice, eh lad?"

"Ah, sure," the ex-templar nodded automatically, glancing between the two as he squeezed past and opened the door.

"Come on," Blackwall beckoned her out, following the Commander, "let's give the Ambassador's office back to her."

Huffing out a low growl as she relented, she felt her body course with adrenaline at her frustrations. " _Shit_. I need to hit something before I explode…" Perhaps that was a poor choice of words, but it hardly mattered when it felt like a real possibility at this point.

Turning as they strolled down the Main Hall together, Cullen's brows raised in invitation. "Would you care to join me at the training ring with the new recruits? Perhaps you and I can spar a bit for educational purposes," he smiled.

Laughing, Blackwall set the pace, and she easily kept up. "Ha! You can take your aggression out on me, as well. So long as you promise to go easy on me. You _are_ a more aggressive fighter."

"Flattery, is it?" She chuckled to herself, feeling her arms itch at the opportunity to flex her muscles. "All right. Get your helmets and meet me outside the armoury."

Eager to start the training exercises, Cullen raised the parchments in his grasp. "I'll come over right after I hide these blighted papers somewhere safe."

As they moved toward the foyer, she glanced back in the direction of the fireplace, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes. There he was, hard at work at his makeshift desk, his reading spectacles sitting on the end of his nose as he dipped his quill and honed in on the parchment before him. Varric hadn't noticed them at all, too buried in paperwork to hear anything beyond the roar of the fire at his back.

And unfortunately for him, he had just missed his favourite smile in all Thedas grace her sweet lips as she walked out the door.

**~oOo~**

For the next two days, Varric Tethras could count on one hand the number of times he'd crossed paths with Seeker Cassandra while he did his damnedest to avoid her at all costs, and each encounter near the sparring grounds was bristling with tensions powerful enough for him to taste. At least that's how he felt when near her, despite the fact that her demeanour communicated something else… And perhaps that was the very thing that had triggered the instinct to keep his distance.

There had been a marked change in her attitude, one that Varric keenly recognised: her bravado was back in full swing. She was confident and focused again, strong and assured, and the strange notion that the Seeker was back to business as usual, in spite of the sudden death of General Samson and her attachment to it, had disarmed him utterly. From what he could figure, one of two things was occurring under that thick skull of hers: either she was burying herself in training to distract herself, or being around all that red lyrium really had rejuvenated her for the time being. Honestly, he would much rather put his faith in the former than ever give credence to the latter.

Either way, Varric begrudgingly let her play this twisted game of pretend if it meant placating her while he freely contemplated more pressing matters. He just hoped the comedown from her high wasn't too catastrophic, or there'd be hell to pay… With any luck, this would buy him plenty of time to think of a way out.

For now, he leaned up and peeked his nose up over the sill, peering out the window and down the slanted roof to the grounds below. Struggling to see out due to the candlelight reflecting off the darkened pane, he shielded his eyes and pressed the edge of his calloused hand right against the cold glass. He could have just tuned his ears a little to know they were still sparring in the yard this late into the evening, but that wasn't enough for him. No, the compulsion to lay eyes on her was too strong not to obey outright…

"You're doin' it again, Varric."

"Huh?" His disused voice cracked in response, lowering his head back down to the soft cushions upon realising he'd been caught. "No I'm not," he mumbled out the pointless denial, propping Bianca's notes he had borrowed from Dagna on a knee.

Sera laid opposite him on the cushioned bay window seats, bouncing her foot crossed over a knee by the ankle. She sighed in exasperation, laying down her doodle to turn a pair of glaring blue eyes on him. "Why don't you just go outside and _say somethin'_ to 'er? 'Least I'd get some bloody privacy again."

The thought of that alone rose his blood pressure, Varric wincing as he admitted the truth: "Despite my uncanny ability to charm my way out of anything, Buttercup, Cassandra makes me nervous. Call it a 'conditioned response'," He turned his head toward her, a brow raised cynically, "but I try to be anywhere else whenever the Seeker's holding her sword _and_ pissed with me at the same time."

"Fair 'nuff. Know when to stick it in an' when to pull it out, yeah?"

"…Something like that."

The elf rolled off her seat and moved to his side in one stride, tucking her legs under her and nearly crushing his toes as she sat on the seat to press her nose to the glass, wiping away the condensation from her breath on the pane. "Well _,_ _Beardy's_ finally given up. He looks _proper_ wrecked," she snorted to herself, blocking his view with the curtains to prevent him from looking for himself after he sat up sharply. "He's talkin' to Cullen and Dorian over by the Mage-y Tower, now. Oh, and Bull's steppin' in. Guess it's his turn to 'ave his arse handed to 'im."

" _Sheesh_ , _another_ _round?!"_ Varric rubbed a hand over his face, wondering if the Seeker would ever run out of energy or if she would keep this crap up all night. This newfound stamina of hers had given him more than a few moments of dread lately. Even the toughest warriors took a break to cool off, but she was a wildfire, burning through stacks of soldiers, chevaliers, and veteran fighters like they were dry kindling on her path of destruction.

All but ignoring him, Sera let out a loud snort followed closely by more laughter. "Look at Cullen just _stand_ there like a useless pleb! It's like he's got no say in anythin' goin' on anymore!" Turning to face him, a brow shot up above her right eye. " _Still_ can't believe it was _you_ an' not him oilin' her saddle," she teased, the mere idea apparently beyond hilarious to her. " _Rawr_ , Varric! Was she a beast in bed, too, or is this shite new?"

Realising that he was unlikely to retain any of the information from the parchments, he released them to fall over his chest, staring up at the simple woodwork above. "A gentleman never tells, Buttercup."

"Oh, piss up a rope! Can't get away with _that_ excuse – not when ya write about yer friends gettin' _theirs_ in all yer books. Oh, I've read 'em, alright. _Pfft,_ 'gentleman,' he says. Not _likely_."

To be fair, she made a good point. Sure, much of his published works contained a combination of subtle sleuthing and imagination on his part, but that didn't matter when the characters in his "friend fictions" were heavily based on real people and their various horizontal adventures. With that in mind, he wondered if he would use his own experiences with the Seeker in future works. Or should he avoid going into enough detail that it was undeniable who he referenced, and Cassandra broke down his door years from now to take her outrage out on his hide? _Hey, if she's still around by then, I'd happily submit to another one of her damned interrogations,_ he thought grimly.

Before Varric could ponder this notion for too long, the elf at his feet interrupted his thoughts, propping her elbows on his knees and tucking her fists beneath her chin to better stare at him. "Doesn't make a bit of sense, wot you did. It's dead obvious you're still hung up on 'er."

Steel sung through the air outside Sera's window, and Tiny's distinctive battle cry followed close behind, along with the crushing sound of wood splintering. Grimacing to himself, Varric groaned as he sat up straight, pushing her gently off and placing the notes on the royal blue cushions to his right. "Do we _have_ to talk about this _right now?_ You _know_ what happened with Bianca, that I mishandled the whole shit-fest. Cassandra's not about to try again after I bailed on her… Let sleeping dragons lie, Buttercup."

She made a face akin to biting into mouldy bread, looking at him as if he'd asked her to reach around and wipe his ass for him. "Look, don't get me wrong, Varric: I hope yer lady-dwarf gets a mouthful of raisins whenever she's thinkin' it's chocolate chips, right? But know what woulda stuck it to 'er _more_ , _besides_ killin' all the baddies? _Not dumpin' Cassy-Wassy._ " Sera turned on the seat to prop her feet against the windowpane, arching her back and lowering her hands to the floor to hang upside-down. "If she knew wot _you_ did after wot _she_ did, I bet she'd be _all_ smug, like, ' _Ooh,_ he ain't featherin' her boa anymore? Ace, got my sovereigns-worth outta that one!'" She pushed herself off with a foot and walked on the heels of her hands to the middle of her small bedroom, eyes on the floor the entire time she spoke. "You get me, right? You just gave 'er wot she wanted, so now you just look _stupid!_ _And_ pathetic, but mostly stupid," said the elf doing a handstand whilst dispensing unprovoked love advice. "Like I said: tell Cass yer head's full o' shite and maybe she'll let ya feel up 'er tits again! Wot've you got to lose?"

A knot tightened in Varric's belly, and while Sera was distracted with her random acrobatics, he craned his neck around to peer out the window, watching anxiously as Bull flung his axe in a dizzying circle, bent on tiring Cassandra out once and for all.

He caught sight of the reflection of her plaidweave leggings on the glass as she lowered a leg to turn herself upright. " _Varric,_ fuck's _sake_ , you're doin' it _again,"_ Sera accused him once more.

"No I'm not," he waved her off, still observing the mock-battle intensely, directly contradicting his own statement. "…Tiny's giving her a run for her money. Maybe she'll actually give it a rest, soon."

"The Inquisitor is here."

Startled by the new voice, he and Sera turned as one to see none other than Cole standing in the doorway. His mannerisms were full of anxiety as he glanced between them, altering the atmosphere to one more disturbing than light-hearted. Something wasn't sitting quite right with the Kid, and the pit in Varric's stomach grew tenfold in a matter of seconds. "Beg pardon?"

Sera shooed the spirit away with both arms. She didn't like him near her at the best of times, and she wasn't keen on making any exceptions for updates on current events, either. " _Pfft! Nah,_ Inky an' Elfy ain't due back for another week. Clear off, Creepy."

At that, the horns over the battlements at the far side of the keep bellowed out their low notes, as they always had when announcing the return of the Herald of Andraste.

"What the…!" Varric pressed his face to the windowpane in time to see his friends lower their weapons and turn their attention to the main gate, exchanging glances equally as puzzled as the one he was wearing now. "Shit, the Kid's _right_ , Buttercup!"

" _Lemme see!"_ She raced over to another window, shoving the satin drapery aside. Cupping the glass, she shook her head. "I don't see nothin'… _Wait!_ How'd _Creepy_ get down there so fast?!"

Sure enough, Cole walked into the fold down on the sparring grounds, beginning to pace whilst not tearing his eyes away from the direction of the drawbridge.

"Come on," Varric grabbed Sera's arm, tugging her out of the room, and she quickly got her feet under her to follow in kind. Both shared the same idea without having to say a word, jumping the bannister in perfect synchronisation and landing with a _thud!_ on the ground floor of the tavern. A sharp pain shot through Varric's foot then, reminding him that his ankle wasn't near-enough what it used to be. Ignoring the sting, he put as little weight on it as possible and limped after Sera through the door.

The air was frigid, the humidity in his breath misting as the dwarf and the elf rounded the side of the building, their companions now in sight. None save Cole were on high alert, the majority of them more confused than showing concern. _Maybe there's nothing to worry about_ , Varric thought hopefully, trying to smile as he approached his friends.

"Hey, Varric" Iron Bull greeted him, slapping the dwarf's shoulder companionably while catching his second wind. "How's it going?"

"Not bad," he muttered, casting an eye around to gauge the mixed atmosphere. "Not good, either, by the looks of it."

"You get another shipment of that stuff recently?"

Craning his neck to look upward, Varric remembered the pile of correspondence one of the scouts had delivered to his shabby quarters yesterday. Andraste's ass, he'd almost forgotten about that. "Oh, probably. I haven't been going through my mail much lately, but it should be there."

" _Should be?"_ Growling under his breath, Bull held the massive axe over his shoulder by the grip and shifted uncomfortably. " _Look_ , Varric, I've had a _crap_ day. I could use a mug before turning in tonight, if you take my meaning."

"Relax, Tiny," he sighed, crossing his arms and turning to face the same direction everyone else was looking. "I still don't see what the deal is, but I'm sure your cocoa will be in _one_ of those parcels."

"Good. That's what I like to hear."

He stopped short of saying anything more as Sparkler came up from behind, followed closely by… pretty much everyone, to be perfectly honest. Curly was there, and Hero, Buttercup, the Kid, and if he looked toward the Main Hall where Ruffles stood trying to get a good look at the stables, the Iron Lady could easily be spotted on her balcony above the entrance, whereas Nightingale was harder to see high up on the balcony of her rookery. Of course, the Seeker was down in the upper courtyard with him, and as if things weren't awkward enough presently, she chose to stand right by his side, waiting on bated breath for the Inquisitor to appear.

And that she did…

Unbelievable as it was, Lavellan was indeed back early from her getaway trip. Her riding hood was pulled down over her face for some unknown reason, and her cloak concealed most of her identifiable mage attire, but there was no mistaking the Herald once she crested the top of the steps nearest the tavern…

Alone.

If that didn't set off alarm bells, then the way she gripped the edges of her hood, rapidly ascending the staircase to the Main Hall sure as hell did the job. No stop at the kitchens for a quick bite to eat, no smiles of greeting to anyone standing on ceremony for her. The silence and avoidance was so uncharacteristic of the cheery woman they all respected and admired that Cassandra visibly stumbled, and Varric reached a hand automatically to her back to steady her.

"Maker's Breath," Cullen uttered, left stunned along with everyone else and taking a cautious step forward. "What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know, but this _can't_ be good," Dorian concurred, trading wary glances with Blackwall.

Braver than her counterparts, Sera cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted up to the Herald as she started her climb up the second flight. " _Hey,_ _Inky! Come back and say hello! Where's your elfy boyfriend at?"_

Just then, Lavellan's ascent quickened to a full-on sprint and she breezed past Josephine without a glance, disappearing through the heavy doors on the memorised path to her chambers above the War Room. Startled, the Ambassador shot them a quizzical look below before going in after her.

To anyone with enough sense, it was swiftly becoming obvious what had likely happened, and as realisation dawned on him, Varric lowered his head in his hands. "Oh, shit," he whispered, rubbing at his forehead on the off-chance that his guilt was somehow written plainly on his face.

He'd forgotten all about their conversation more than a month ago in the Emerald Graves… So much had occurred between then and now that it had completely escaped his memory. Shooting a glance over to Blackwall to see if he'd made the same connections, he found confirmation resting in the warrior's troubled blue eyes, staring back at him with profound disbelief.

"I don't understand," Cassandra shook her head slowly, turning to the group for clarification. "What just happened? And where is Solas?"

A moment later, the former _Ben-Hassrath_ raised a muscly arm and pointed forward. "Right there. See him crossing over from the battlements to the rotunda where the footbridge joins the two?" Varric couldn't see a damned thing from where he stood, but it didn't matter at this point. He'd take Tiny's word for it. "That's him. He's _sneaky_ , but I see him."

"Why would they take separate routes back to the hall?" Cullen wondered, a worry line creasing between his brows. "Surely, they would have walked together. It makes no sense…"

Cole took a few steps forward then, all features masked beneath the ragged old hat, his ghostly appearance sending a chill up Varric's spine. "She was real… A-and he didn't think _anyone_ could be real. It makes it hard for him… _You are so beautiful,"_ the spirit whispered in a cadence not exactly his own. _"…_ But then he turned away. _I distracted you from your duties. It won't happen again._ "

The Kid's not-so-subtle retelling of events they weren't privy to had sent the dwarf reeling. Unable to stand the pressure any longer, he gripped his ginger hair and spun round, backing away toward the armoury, careful not to trip on the perimeter of the sparring circle and jostle his touchy ankle further. "Okay, _I_ give up _,"_ he groaned to himself, recognising the words almost verbatim to the excuses he had so casually grumbled on the forest floor. " _Damn_ it, Chuckles, why'd you have to drag me into this?! As if I don't have enough shit to deal with!"

Blackwall raced up to him, glancing over his shoulder to be sure he wasn't followed, and held his hands out before him to stop the dwarf's temper tantrum. "Look, lad, don't jump ahead of the facts. We don't know what happened, yet. Maybe it's nothing to worry about!"

"Your incessant optimism is getting in the way of my _perfectly_ justified freak-out, Hero!"

"Well, then _let_ it, for pity's sake! Give yourself a fucking break for once," he urged, a hand on the red sleeve of his coat to hold him in place.

The dizziness momentarily subsiding, Varric looked up in time to see Madame Vivienne gesture toward the interior of the Main Hall, the flat position of her outstretched hand pointing in the direction of the throne a frank invitation for someone better suited than her to go after the Inquisitor. After giving her a quick thumbs-up from where he stood, the enchantress nodded her acknowledgement and crossed her arms delicately, worry in her measured steps as she made her way back inside.

Waving a dismissive hand at Blackwall, Varric strode back over to the impromptu assembly. "Alright," he called them to him, the group instinctively forming a circle to convene, "someone's gotta go talk to them and find out what's going on."

"I will go to Solas," Cole volunteered straight away, brooking no dissent. "He'll only lie to you, and he doesn't want to lie, now."

The Kid was so matter-of-fact about it that Varric and the others turned to stare at him. He'd never been so clear about _anything_ before. This level of attention usually caused him to cower, but instead the boy stood unflinching. "Yes. I'll do it… Thank you." And with that, the spirit walked off to take the steps upward, shoulders slumped in foreboding sadness.

"Well," Cullen scratched at his chin, "I suppose that takes care of that."

"One down, one to go," Blackwall muttered, closing the nervous huddle.

Sighing, Varric shook his head and turned his attention back to the task at hand. "Alright, that leaves the Inquisitor. Any volunteers?"

Before anyone could put themselves forward, Sera straightened, her eyes landing directly on the Seeker. "I say Cassandra should go. You know, girl bonding and all that rubbish."

Before he could ask the elf why she felt it necessary to bring attention to the fact that both the Seeker and Lavellan were currently on rocky ground relationship-wise, Varric was interrupted – which, in light of everyone present, was probably for the best.

"Sera," Bull pointed out, eyeing her up and down to illustrate his point, "maybe I just haven't been paying much attention, but I thought you were a 'girl', too."

"Top skills there, mate, but _trust_ me, you don't want me up there," she shook her head. "First thing I'd do is giggle and make jokes about Elfy wandering the Fade in search of a personality – _and_ his hairline!" She snorted, vindicated by her own insensitivity on the subject. "See? I'm no good at this. But if she ever wants to talk the big shit about Sol- _ass_ , I'll be _well_ prepared for that eventuality."

"Well, then _you're_ clearly out," Varric agreed, casting his gaze around the group for a better option.

Then he stopped on the perfect man for the job, setting his jaw in satisfaction. "All in favour of Dorian talking to the Inquisitor, say 'aye'."

The man had been stroking his moustache pensively for the majority of the huddle's duration, deep in worrisome thoughts when he heard Varric call for a vote, and his head shot up, brows raising impossibly. _"Me?"_

"Aye," Cullen voted instantly, turning to find two green eyes piercing his soul. "What? Maker's Breath, don't look at me that way – she's fond of you!"

"Aye," Blackwall agreed, patting the Tevinter's back encouragingly. "Take one for the team, Dorian."

"Yeah, _kadan_ , you got this," Bull said, pulling the mage's chin his direction and leaning down from his towering height to plant a sympathetic kiss on his lover's lips.

" _Et tu, Bull?"_ Dorian grimaced, sweat beginning to pearl on his forehead despite the chill.

" _Hey_ ," Tiny smiled down at him, "she needs a friend, and who better than you? If it were me up there, _I'd_ choose you."

"If it were _you_ , it'd be _me_ who – oh, forget it," he waved his fingers, brushing the qunari off as he turned to the rest. "This a _democratic_ decision, I presume? Is it a unanimous one, as well?"

Cassandra crossed her arms, glaring at the man. "You're wasting time standing here when you could be speaking to the Herald," she uttered through clenched teeth.

The necromancer raised his hands in surrender to her point. "Never fear, ye poor Southerners: I was planning to see her whether you selected me for the task or not." He took a step to the left, puffing out his chest and joining his hands behind his back. " _Don't_ wait up, _amatus,_ " he gave Bull a knowing glance.

Varric didn't envy the man – he didn't really want to know what this was about, either, but if it was anything worth knowing, they'd all find out soon enough.

"Yeh, go on. Get yer pretty arse up there, Tevinter." As Dorian threw Sera a veiled glare in return for her commentary, she whirled on a heel to presumably head for the warm familiarity of the tavern. After she was out of sight, however, she managed to sneak up behind the unsuspecting dwarf, kicking the back of his locked knee and causing him to stumble. Luckily it seemed the others were too distracted with tall people stuff to notice, and Sera used the opportunity while they were busy to lean down and hiss under her breath, " _Talk_ to 'er _, stupid._ "

" _Now?_ What the hell do you suggest I talk _about_ , Buttercup?"

But when he turned to face the woman, he found the space behind him vacant, a new set of footprints leading to the tavern door, where he heard it shut loudly out of view.

No _way_ was he going to initiate conversation with Cassandra after she'd so thoroughly blown him off the other day, even if Sera had to dog him to the ends of the Deep Roads to make him do it. The timing couldn't be worse, what with the drama currently taking place behind closed doors throughout the keep. All this evening had achieved thus far could be summed up in a picking of scabs from wounds too fresh to treat. No, trying to repair bridges still teeming with explosives was a death wish.

Ignoring those standing somewhere behind him speculating on various scenarios to explain Lavellan's odd behaviour, Varric followed Sera's footprints back toward Herald's Rest in need of something strong to take the edge off – only to find everyone following _him_ , sans Cullen, who quietly headed to the keep to presumably speak to Ruffles.

Spinning on his good ankle, he raised a brow at them in suspicion. "Mind telling me what you're all doing?"

"We're joining you," Bull clarified, looking around as if to figure out what about their actions had confused the dwarf. "I could use a drink, and if you're not getting my stuff anytime soon, then I'm getting smashed."

Hero passed by quickly, going down the path Sera had taken. "I'll get the pitchers, you get the table," he called to the qunari over his broad shoulder. Eager to sit down and rest his tired frame, Tiny made his way to do just that…

…Leaving Cassandra and Varric to stand on their own.

As the silence around them grew, it was obvious she was having just as much difficulty alleviating the tension as he was, and he begrudgingly admitted that he was eventually going to have to say something to her… If there was no chance for romance between them, then they could at least try to work on re-establishing their forgotten friendship…

Hesitating long enough to find his breath, Varric cleared his throat, biting his lower lip tentatively as Sera's charming advice echoed gratingly in his ears. "Well, looks like my evening's just been booked solid," he tried to smile up at her, the expression difficult to maintain through his nervousness.

She swallowed what he assumed to be her pride, pretending something had caught her eye in the distance while she waited for him to inevitably disappear, as he had done all the times they'd seen one another since the whole War Room fiasco.

Then Cassandra's stance relaxed somewhat, her eyes softening, and she effected a friendly smirk in reply to his own. "I hope you enjoy yourselves," she said sincerely, holding the sweet expression for a while. She seemed to realise she was staring at him then and shook her head clear, suddenly heading toward her training area to challenge non-living targets.

There was no telling how it transpired, nor where exactly it came from. Somehow, though, in that strange moment where caution was suddenly thrown heedlessly to the wind, Varric Tethras was seized by what could safely be labelled as an ounce of courage. It wasn't much, and it wasn't even polished or all that impressive, but it was something to work with. Steeling himself, he gave it a shot:

"Unless, Seeker, you maybe wanted to…"

He stopped short when she stumbled and turned toward him, her eyes narrowing as she listened intently. He'd meant to shrug, but his shoulders wouldn't fall back down and he appeared to hunch in on himself, looking probably as ridiculous as he felt. Still, his bravery in that instant didn't waver. "Ah, I mean… unless you had something better to –"

Cassandra took a sharp breath, making him bite his tongue and second-guess all he'd said up to that point. " _Oh,_ " her body stiffened in alarm. "I… had nothing in _mind_ – Well… my sparring partners have all dispersed – those _cowards,_ " she growled, her sneer dissolving after seeing the amused smirk take hold on his face. "But… Varric, I think I owe you an explan–"

"So it's safe to say you have nothing planned?" he asked, his heart racing forward like a spooked halla.

Peering at the dwarf through the darkness around them, her eyes suddenly looked left sharply in uncertainty.

 _Wait, something's different about her eyes_ , he thought, jerking slightly. He couldn't quite put his finger on what had shaken his subconscious, but she took a deep breath before he could think on it more.

"I suppose it is," she cocked her head to the side, trading subtle glances with him as she made her way slowly back to his side. She was antsy, unable to remain calm while she practically danced in place, not knowing whether she was coming or going anymore. "…I seem to have a bit of free time, tonight."

At her words, his eyes drifted down to her gloved fingers and, without leaving any wiggle room for himself to back out like any good rogue should, Varric reached out and ran the side of his index finger down along her own.

It was a slow, deliberate, gentle touch, and she immediately froze in place. Too afraid to look up and suffer the glare she was surely wearing, worried it would be filled with disgust or contempt, he let his hand fall away and scratched the back of his neck instead.

"You, um, think maybe you'd care to join us?" his gravelly tone trembled over the invitation.

If the Maker had granted him any mercy at all, it was in the way she breathed, as if she was as anxious as he was, if not more, and he'd take that subtle glimpse of emotion over a cold shoulder any day. "I-In _there?_ With them – and _you?_ "

She couldn't believe he was asking her to accompany him, even after the bitterness from before. Varric smiled at her in veiled adoration, Cassandra's anxious stammer charming him thoroughly. "That's kind of what I meant by 'us', Seeker."

An awkward silence permeated the air as he waited for her reply, and she looked so indecisive that he thought she might run like a fennec from a wolf if he so much as flinched. Biting his lip again, his brows lowered as he studied her, ready to use whatever was in his arsenal of persuasion to entice her inside… But if she didn't feel up to it, he was content to let her go about her business and not take the rejection to heart.

"There'll be shit-tons of alcohol, Seeker. I guess that goes without saying, doesn't it? …Anyway, I'm planning to drink until I forget all the shit that just happened. And hey, if you interrogate me with leading questions, there's a chance I might have a few minor _Swords and Shields_ spoilers for you–"

"Varric."

"Huh?"

Cassandra touched her fingertips to the pommel of her longsword, almond eyes narrowing shyly, and the dwarf held his breath for as long as it took her to reply, which, considering her hesitation in the moment, was agonisingly close to the edge of suffocation.

"…To be perfectly honest," she said at last, "you had me at 'shit-tons of alcohol'."

**~oOo~**

The night deepened around their modest table on the first floor of Herald's Rest Tavern, the small band consisting of the Iron Bull, Blackwall, Sera, Cassandra and himself waiting out the proverbial storm on the other end of the keep in the company of copious amounts of liquor and ale, snacking on what nibbles the kitchens still had on offer this near to closing time. Cards lay strewn about haphazardly, some having long-since fallen to the floor without notice after the game of Shepard's Six, played purely for laughs at the Seeker's expense, was abandoned hours prior.

Barring the upsets and missteps they'd suffered in the past weeks, it was the first time since the Mire that Varric could comfortably admit that he was… genuinely _happy._ She sat across from him, her rare laughter in such abundance now that just the sight of her enjoying herself after all she had been though was infectious. She'd changed somehow, and life for her had significantly brightened, whatever the cause for her shift in prognosis. Though he'd initially been sceptical, Varric couldn't help but feel an oppressive weight lift from his shoulders, pushing his feelings of trepidation for her condition aside in lieu of the way she now carried herself, as a woman of renewed confidence and pure vibrancy.

In fact, she had been the life of the party that evening, which was another uncharacteristic facet for her to hold. She was more than happy to share the true tale of how she and Regalyan had uncovered the conspiracy to assassinate Divine Beatrix, stopped a cult of blood mages from destroying the Andrastian capital, rescued a young elven girl from their dark clutches, slayed dragons in a dazzlingly terrifying display, and all-in-all saved the world from chaos. As far as he was concerned, the Seeker hadn't given herself _enough_ credit for the role she'd played, and he set his mind to correct that in print as soon as time would allow. Taking careful notes beneath the table as she went on, he underlined a few key areas that lacked detail, demanded exploration, or needed revising, all of which he would flesh out in due time. Contrary to what he'd expected, when Cassandra caught him scratching away at his bound pocketbook, she didn't try to snatch it away, nor even verbally object to his recordings. Instead, she had blushed deeply and hidden her smile behind the mug in her hand, the sight of her acceptance more than he could have hoped for.

After Cassandra concluded the harrowing account of how she had become the Right Hand of the Divine, she slumped back and listened to the bloody descriptions of how Tiny had lost his left eye, coinciding with his first encounter with a stranger, Cremisius Acclasi, the loveable Tevinter mercenary warrior who would be known by his friends thereafter as simply "Krem".

It was in that moment, when Bull had lifted his metal patch to show off the gruesome scar in frank illustration of the intensity of the brawl which had claimed his eye, that the creaking of footsteps was heard coming up the wooden stairs. They sat up then, fully expecting Cabot or the barmaid to call for the last round of the night. To the surprise of everyone present, the person in question turned out to be neither.

The man ascending the stairs to meet them was Sparkler himself, looking the worse for wear, tired and emotionally spent as he drudged forward.

" _Kadan_ ," Bull straightened, reaching toward the table at his back and pulling a chair in for the mage to sit beside him. "C'mere," he urged him, helping the exhausted Tevinter find his seat. "What's up? We thought you'd gone off to bed, already."

Sighing in dismay, Dorian propped his elbow upon the table and leaned his head on a hand. "The Fade will have to wait, apparently. I _tried_ to let Genetivi's droning pages bore me to tears, but it wasn't as sleep-inducing as I'd hoped… The mind tends to wander…"

As the anticipation for news grew, Varric silently cursed the inevitable return of his anxieties, beads of sweat forming on his temple, dreading what revelations would lie ahead. Noticing his unease, Hero leaned over in his seat beside the dwarf to whisper privately. "I can hear your heartbeat from over here, lad. Don't set your chest hair on fire, yet. You and I both know Solas wouldn't just end it out of nowhere."

"So, you plannin' on leavin' us in suspense or wot?" Sera pried, leaning toward the man now seated beside her. "Go on then, what's 'appened?"

The man opened one of his green eyes to a slit of accusation, looking particularly miffed as he peered around the table at his half-drunken companions. Rolling his neck and shoulders for a moment, he repositioned his back against the chair and raised a finger in warning. "Firstly, if any of you tactless cretins have placed wagers on the outcome of what I'm about to tell you, I swear I will decimate you, raise you from the dead, and have your drooling corpses charged with illegal gambling."

" _Hey_. We wouldn't do that," Bull shook his horns, taking offense at the notion. "Not over something this serious. The hell do you take us for?"

" _Cretins,_ obviously _"_ Dorian glowered. Still sour, he gave the barest of nods toward the Seeker. "Although I suppose I can trust _Cassandra_ to have kept things on the straight and narrow while I was gone."

Nodding back to reassure him that nothing was amiss, she asked, "What did the Inquisitor tell you?"

He pressed his lips to a fine line, running a hand through his hair tiredly before reaching for a random mug on the table and holding it up to his chest. "Solas ended it," he said evenly, taking the prolonged drink he so desperately needed. "…Out of _nowhere_."

The revelation was greeted by a moment of silence, jaws falling slack everywhere one cared to look. That wasn't to say Dorian's statement garnered much surprise; they'd assumed something along those lines had taken place, but speculation was one thing. Confirmation, however, was another beast entirely.

"…Son of a bitch," Varric muttered under his breath, turning to stare at the wall next to him rather than meet Blackwall's awkward gaze.

This was the grand finale to everything he had said in confidence during "guy talk" with Chuckles and Hero, the natural conclusion to unintentionally planting the seeds of doubt in the apostate's mind. It was highly possible that, although he had hoped the man wouldn't take his concerns about a relationship with Cassandra to heart, he'd remembered every worry that had been expressed, had witnessed those fears come to pass in real time, and had taken action to prevent the scenario from repeating itself. Sure, maybe there were other, more personal reasons behind Solas' decision, but if Varric knew anything about that guy, he wouldn't be offering an explanation anytime soon.

"You're _kidding_ ," Sera blinked hard, unable to erase the look of annoyed frustration painted over her features as prominently as a casteless mark on a dwarf's cheekbone.

With a sigh, Dorian shook his head and huffed ruefully, raising the mug to his lips again. "Maker, I wish I was…"

Bull placed a large palm on the man's shoulder comfortingly, kneading at a prominent knot in the mage's muscle. "How's the Inquisitor taking it?"

He contemplated the query for a time, a small wrinkle taking form between his brows as they drew together in a frown. "How do you think? _You_ all saw her in the courtyard. She's quite perplexed by the whole ordeal," he explained, his tone one of mild surprise, "but I can hardly blame the poor thing. Heartbroken, of course, mixed in with an element of shame, and yet she's convinced their separation is only a 'temporary setback'. Lavellan believes once Corypheus lies dead, circumstances will change for them. It's a _lot_ to hope for at this point, but…" Running a hand over his cheek, he rubbed at the bone there before relaxing his arm in pure exhaustion. "The whole thing is a bit of a mystery, even to her… There's more – _much_ more – but that's all I'm willing to say. The rest is between myself and Lavvy."

He raised his eyes to his companions, no one daring to mention the dark circles beneath them and risk frustrating him further. "Has Cole returned yet?"

"We've not seen him," Cassandra informed the mage, concern washing over her. She let out a sigh and slumped in her chair, staring down at the table's surface with a blank expression. Varric couldn't bear to look at her, though, surmising what she must be thinking of the unfortunate situation.

"Hmm… That's odd. I didn't see him when I… spoke to Solas," he revealed hesitantly, "but I suppose I should have more or less expected that."

This piqued Varric's curiosity, hoping Sparkler could put the issue to rest for him. "And what did Solas have to say for himself?"

Brows raising, Dorian looked up briefly before returning his eyes to the mug. "Oh, unsurprisingly, he was as veiled and secretive as ever." Wincing, he flung his right wrist a bit and stretched his fingers, hissing slightly as he laid his hand on the table to rest.

…His bruised hand.

" _Shit._ Did you have it out with 'im?" Buttercup stared openly at the man's busted knuckles in frank approval, the thought seeming to brighten her mood exponentially.

His moustache twitched in a moment of social discomfort. "Not _precisely_ ," he faltered, flexing his fingers into as much of a fist as he could manage without pain. "It was what one might call a bit 'one-sided.' We exchanged a few harsh words with one another, and I… Please don't tell Lavellan," he pleaded with them suddenly. "She wouldn't approve for a minute, I just know it… _I_ already regret taking the swing." Unable to simply let the offending appendage inflame without intervention, Dorian tapped into his mana reserves and skimmed the bruising with a rudimentary ice spell, preferring the numbness of the light frost to the dull throb pulsing through his fingers. "Still, I feel much better for it… At least, I _think_ I do."

There wasn't much left to say after that. The group fell back into a morose sort of silence, everyone lost in their own separate trains of thought. There was no telling what was going through their minds, but as for Varric, he felt less guilty about what had happened between the two lovers than he ought to. Instead, resentment began to gain a foothold inside him, even going as far as to call it a betrayal of his confidence in the older elf. If Solas had used what Varric said as some twisted justification to break it off with the Inquisitor, then like it or not, that sorry bastard was going to get a pointed earful from the dwarf. The whole thing just felt… _wrong_ to him on every conceivable level. No way did someone like the Inquisitor deserve the shit being shovelled on her now…

"I can't believe he just _left_ her," Cassandra said sadly, her voice brimming with empathy, "with no word of explanation… Maker, what sort of unfeeling individual would do such a thing?"

Her words struck Varric on a deeply personal level, and he glanced up to find the Seeker still staring into dead space, but at least not focusing on him… even if the implications of what she'd said were aimed squarely at him.

Defensive over the part he might have played in the break-up of Lavellan's relationship and the direct parallels Cassandra appeared to be drawing with their own falling-out, Varric speculated on the causes. Though in hindsight, it may not have been the smartest move on his part. "Ah, I'm sure he's not 'unfeeling'… Maybe he thought he needed to do it to protect her from something. Or maybe it's like the Kid said, and he just didn't want to distract her from her work." Pausing for a swig of ale, he wiped at his mouth and added, "If the Herald believes there's a chance they'll make up once this shit is over, then I say we let her hold onto that and cross our fingers for them."

To his right, Hero offered a nod of acceptance at this – but froze as soon as he noticed the glower emanating from the other side of the table.

"Well," Cassandra pursed her lips, frustration oozing from her deep tone, "when her duties have been fulfilled, perhaps she'll no longer find his support _necessary_. It's not as if she even _owes_ him a second chance after he broke her heart."

Her mood lately was like a sandstorm in the Hissing Wastes: one minute, she could be breezy and clear, but by the next, there was no telling left from right, and the only sensible option was to find shelter and ride it out. But he was too aggravated to listen to the rational half of his brain, and he instead pissed into the wind. "Hey, she's welcome to make her own decisions," Varric grumbled, utterly done with walking on eggshells around her. "She's a grown, stubborn-ass woman, too."

Sera listened on in confusion, trying to follow the conversation and failing miserably to detect the subtle nuances of their back-and-forth. "Hang on, are we still goin' on about Elfy?"

The Seeker shot the elf a threatening glance. "Oh, _certainly_ , Sera." If there was anything Buttercup understood like a mother language, it was sarcasm, and the elf immediately subsided with a raise of her hands. Eyeing the dwarf across from her once more, the warrior cocked her head to the side and sneered, "Who _else_ among us would be so cruel?"

"Uh, Cassandra," Hero jumped in, a hand raised to try easing her back down, "I thought we'd talked about this –"

" _Enough_ , Blackwall," she barked harshly.

Ignoring his stunned friends, Varric cut all pretence and aimed for the heart of the issue. "Look, if you wanna take a swing at me, Seeker, then just get it over with. It made Sparkler feel better."

"Don't drag _me_ into your little spat!"

"That offer is more tempting than you know, _Varric_ ," she shot back, disregarding Dorian's plea to instead lean forward in her chair to intimidate him.

"Well, you of all people should know I can withstand a beating or two," he threw his hands up in aggravation. "Maybe after you get it out of your system _,_ you'll shut up about my cowardice in the face of betrayal and loss."

" _Oh, bullshit!"_ Her chair flung back and crashed on its side as she stood up, practically nose-to-nose with him. "I forgot you were the _true_ victim in all this! Tell me how painful it was to discover that, _unpredictably_ , the _married_ woman _cheating_ on her husband with you for _decades_ was dishonest and underhanded! _That_ must have been a shock!"

"No more of a shock than you putting me through the ringer over my damned past all over again! Andraste's ass, I should've seen _that_ shit coming a mile off! Come on, Seeker, is _that_ the best you've got?! Go ahead, lay one on me," he challenged her, slapping his cheek in frank invitation. " _Right here._ Make sure to get my good side!"

"Hey, c'mon guys, don't… uh…"

The Iron Bull trailed off as Cassandra let out a growl and leapt at the dwarf, the table toppling on its side and taking their drinks with it, while the two struggled almost comedically on the floor right in front of them, grunting and rolling in their impromptu fight.

"And _there_ they go," Dorian sighed, smirking sympathetically upon noticing Blackwall's ale-drenched lap. At Sera's crass encouragement of the scrap unfolding before their eyes, the Tevinter turned to his right, gesturing with a hand toward the undignified scene now garnering several dozen onlookers from below. " _Amatus_ , would you kindly intervene? I'd hate to have to set anyone on fire tonight."

Before the mage could finish his request, the massive qunari rose from his chair, his eye rolling emphatically. "On it, _kadan_."

**~oOo~**

He dragged a hand through his tangled hair, pushing back the locks falling in front of his eyes after having thrown his hair tie across the floor nearly two hours ago. The mail scattered around Varric on the old bed had been sorted first by sender, second by priority. Unfortunately, his trouble now laid in the fact that everything seemed to be an urgent matter, and that frustrated him to the point where he began to consider procrastinating out of spite.

With no hearth to speak of, the only warmth he received came from what wicks he could light and the calming presence of Mouse, who curled up beside him on the straw mattress after kneading the spot for a good five minutes, reminding him of just how uncomfortable his sleeping arrangements were. Setting his uneasy mind to tackle the growing stacks, he skimmed the letters one by one under the candlelight in his shabby quarters.

His publisher had forwarded a cut of his books' quarterly earnings, which couldn't have come at a better time. His editor had returned another early draft, along with a scathing note regarding his overuse of semicolons; she was threatening to quit over it again, but he knew she wouldn't abandon him when the story was just getting good. The Guild was threatening to replace him as Deshyr to Kirkwall if he didn't return to the Free Marches within a month, and that letter was dated well over two months ago, so he was probably out of a gig for now. The businesses he held investments in were in the red, pointing the finger at the port, which still hadn't been reconstructed since he'd last seen it in ruins. Apparently, some merchant ships carrying his goods had their docking permits revoked by the port authority for unspecified reasons, prompting the owners to petition him for intervention – and if his title of Deshyr had really been stripped, then that might complicate matters. He'd have to consult Ruffles on the finer points of diplomatic haggling… That, or call in another favour from Rivaini to smuggle the goods in for him, but that wouldn't solve the problem in the long run.

Although daunting in and of itself, this was ultimately a distraction, and he knew it. Varric was more than happy to put thoughts of Cassandra far from his mind after what had happened in the tavern. Yes, he'd goaded her into the fight, and no, he didn't blame her for her reaction at all, but it still grated on him. There had been an intensity in her muscles, a power in her bones he'd never felt before, and it had been so…

 _Nope. It's not worth it._ He'd promised himself that he wouldn't dwell on it. She wasn't in her right mind, and to be totally honest, neither was he. Damn that red lyrium, did it have to poison everything? Nothing would be right until that shit was gone from his life for good…

_To: Varric, Skyhold Fortress, Frostback Mountains_

The letter caught his attention as he sifted through the unsorted pile in a daze, the dark red wax seal bearing the sigil of the Grey Wardens. It was addressed to him on purely a first name basis, which could bring only one person to mind as the obvious sender. Slowly, he dropped the small stack and reached forward to draw the envelope to him, staring at the small handwriting as if it was truly her face he saw before him. Resisting the urge to hold the letter to his chest, he picked up his silverite letter opener and sliced the top in one fell swoop, reaching inside for the single leaf of parchment. Closing his heavy eyelids, he let his breath out slowly and unfolded it, reading slowly as if to savour the script:

 _Varric,_ she opened, the solitary word on the header surprising him to a degree. No "dear" or "hello" or some other greeting? That didn't put his mind at ease…

_I'm sorry for not writing sooner, but as you can imagine, the Calling kept me rather occupied. After it finally stopped, Aveline helped me secure passage back to Weisshaupt so I could see for myself what was going on, and things here have been a little insane ever since. The fallout from everything that happened at Adamant fortress was stressful. Many wardens were lost, some of them my friends (but others had it coming, I think). The exile from Orlais has been tricky, as well. I suppose I understand the Inquisitor's concerns, but I just hope your friend knows what she's doing. Our fortress couldn't handle the strain of so many of us packed inside its walls with no assignments to carry out. Until Warden Commander Stroud stationed people elsewhere, it brought back old memories of when I sailed to Kirkwall for the first time with Mother, Aveline and…_

He tried not to tear up, but saw the drop hit the parchment all the same. Wiping away at it before the moisture could distort her writing, he continued:

_I hope you've been keeping well. And I know it must be hard for you, being so far from home, despite there not being much left of it thanks to Anders, Meredith, Orsino… I could go on, but I didn't write to assign blame. What's done is done, right? Now we must all live with the consequences. I wasn't there, of course. The Maker had other plans in mind for my life, even if they didn't match up with my own. He had other plans for yours, too. And my brother's…_

_Forgive me for bringing him up again. It's just that I haven't had a moment to truly grieve for him until tonight. Warden Commander Stroud was kind enough to offer his condolences after he arrived with the others to brief us on Adamant, but after time went by, I thought I'd hear nothing more of it. I spent the last few months weeping silently in my bunk, keeping the pain locked away. But I spent the entire evening speaking to him about my brother, and it has been emotional for me. Several wardens no longer have family, so I know I'm not unique, but Jean-Marc (he insisted I call him by his given name during our conversation) was so compassionate and caring. He told me about how Garrett helped him find the source of the Calling, how he threw himself into battle and fought bravely against the demons. You had given me some insight, but now I know you spared me the more painful details. Besides, reading your measured words in a letter is just not the same as hearing it from the last person who saw my brother alive. Jean-Marc has become something of a father figure to me, and I am grateful for my new family among the Grey Wardens._

_And I realised tonight, after all that drinking and crying on his shoulder, that I never properly forgave you or your Inquisitor friend. I know everyone thinks of me as a sweet girl who could never hold a grudge, and I thought as much, too. I now understand that I have been harbouring that pain inside me, letting it fester into resentment, and that was unworthy of me._

_Varric, I am sorry for what you have suffered, for what you had to go through on your own. I didn't want to accept the idea that you could be mourning Garrett just as I was. He was all I had left of my family, and I selfishly believed only I was left behind, that only I should be allowed to hold my brother's memory in my heart. I wanted him all for myself and didn't want to share. But Garrett touched many lives in his time with us, not just mine. I saw the guilt and pain in Jean-Marc's eyes when he spoke of him, and knew that if he felt that way, then you must carry that weight, as well._

_I will tell you what I told my Commander, Varric: Don't blame yourself for what happened._

He tore his eyes away suddenly, putting the letter down as he rubbed at his lips roughly, staving off his emotions. There was more on the page, but he couldn't bear to keep going, and the thought of sorting through the rest of the mail now only widened the pit in his stomach all the more.

With a heavy heart, Varric leaned back against the weathered headboard, wary of snagging his neck on a splinter as he had the night before, and felt blindly for the hidden flask beneath his pillow. The liquid within sloshed about at his touch, the old metal still shimmering in places where it caught the light. Damn it, he'd done so well at steering clear of alcohol, but he could always count on his unwavering ability to fall back into the habitual repression of his emotions by indulging in unhealthy habits…

Out of nowhere came a hard knock at the door, and the dwarf jerked with a start, disturbing the sleeping cat by his side. Primal instinct caused him to suddenly panic that it might be the Iron Lady coming to confiscate his liquor, as if she had mentally sensed what he was about to do and was swooping down to intervene with a scathing lecture. Then reason won the day, and he realised that Tiny must _really_ be desperate for that cocoa powder.

Throwing his legs over the side, he scratched at his bare chest and made his way to the corner, where Mt. Parcel now stood, as he had decided to name it. He bit his lip and frowned as he sifted through the large stack, which was easily as tall as Curly and as bulky as the qunari now standing outside his door.

The knocks came again, louder and more insistent this time. " _Yeah, yeah,_ give me a sec," he called to him, skimming the packages. He came across one roughly the size of his head and gave it a shake, noting the return address – a fake one set up for his spy network, which confirmed the source. This had to be the stuff. Turning on his good heel, he braced himself against the chill that would surely hit him as soon as he –

…Well, it wasn't Tiny.

Varric stood in the doorway, staring up in utter shock. _"Seeker?"_

Praise be to Andraste: the woman had come unarmed, unarmoured, and the expression on her face was difficult to pin down, but at least she didn't look homicidal anymore. "Varric," Cassandra all but whispered. She appeared conflicted, as if she had even less of an idea as to why she was here than he did.

Still sore over their brawl earlier, he crossed his arms over his chest and turned away warily. "…Did you come here on your own, or did the red lyrium send you over?"

His words cut her deeper than he'd intended them to, judging by the way she now pressed her lips together, blinking several times before finding the words to respond. "I made the decision… but perhaps it was a mistake to come," she said, lowering her eyes and making an about-face.

"Ah, wait… Hold on," he sighed out his lingering frustrations, annoyed with himself. Luckily, she gave pause, waiting for more from him. "Never go to bed angry, right…?" Swallowing his pride, the man straightened his shoulders and beckoned her inside. "Come on in for a minute, Seeker."

She shuffled her feet in place for a moment, urging herself forward. It was almost humorous, watching the body fight the brain in real time, but eventually she managed to step inside as a gust of wind chilled her enough to seek shelter within. Closing the door behind her, he engaged the latch and followed her a few steps into the dimly lit quarters.

It wasn't until he saw her casting her gaze about the room that he noticed the state of the place. It looked as if a berserk demon had gone into a fit of rage: the envelopes scattered on the unmade bed, the clothes piled on top of the hamper and over the chest rather than placed inside, the parcels stacked precariously in the corner, Bianca halfway poking out from beneath the bed… Varric was usually tidier than this, but he never had company here, and even in disarray he knew where everything was. Still, it wasn't exactly inviting.

Fiddling with one of his gold earrings, he cleared his throat. "Uh, sorry about the –"

"No, that's all right," she cut him off with a reassuring wave of her hand. "I did come unannounced…"

He nodded, unsure of how to get her to open up about exactly _why_ she had come at all. After the fighting words they'd traded with one another, Varric had more or less expected her to give him the cold shoulder for a few days, if not a solid week. Yet here she was in the dead of night, standing in his room for the first time ever since discovering this strangely convenient fortress in the mountains.

Realising belatedly that there was nowhere to sit, he turned his back for a moment and moved to clear a spot on the bed, mindful to block her view while he tucked the flask back under his pillow. He didn't know why he was hiding the drink – after all, he'd just spent the evening drinking with her in the tavern… _Is that why she's here? Is she drunk or something?_

Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed the Seeker approach the bed to help move his papers, careful to keep the piles separate as she found a clear space for them on a weathered side table. Welcoming the helping hand she lent, he gathered his stacks of tabs and invoices to follow suit, moving an empty vase to the floor to make room for the opened mail.

When he turned around, however, he saw Cassandra sitting on his bed with a letter in hand, fully engrossed in all that was written there. "…Reverting to old habits, Seeker?"

Pulled from her reading, she raised her prying eyes to him. "What?"

He managed a slight smirk, the ghost of a laugh escaping his lips. "I know I've lost a lot of ground with you lately, but I didn't think you'd go back to monitoring my correspondence."

As if realising for the first time that what she was doing could easily be taken for an invasion of his privacy, she dropped it in a heartbeat, the parchment floating to the stone floor, where it promptly folded in on itself. "Oh, I – I didn't mean to just – Maker, how rude of me."

"Forget it," he shook his head, never having intended to disturb her so. He shuffled forward a few steps and bent to retrieve the letter, placing it on his bedside table by the pillar candles. "It doesn't matter. We share everything, right? …Well, we used to, but… that all changed somehow along the line…"

Her back straightened, awkwardness freezing her in the uncomfortable position. "Yes. We once did…" Noticing her presence, Mouse stretched her back, front paws flat on the quilt, and sidled over to rub her length against the Seeker's arm in greeting. The warm welcome calmed her somewhat, and she lifted a hand to run it down the creature's back all the way down to her tail comfortingly.

"Read anything particularly interesting?" He asked, plunking down by the pillow and crossing the touchy ankle over his knee.

Cassandra swallowed around a lump in her throat, touching the loose braid draped over her chest in nervousness. "…I thought I saw myself mentioned, and it caught my attention. I wasn't trying to…"

Alarmed, Varric shifted to reach for Bethany's letter, unfolding it with a frown as he watched her. "Did she say something? I hadn't finished going over it, yet…"

_...Don't blame yourself for what happened. I know you well enough after all these years, and if I read your previous letters right, I feel like you've saved most of the blame for yourself. It was Garrett's choice to stay behind, Varric, and he did a very brave thing by sacrificing himself to save all those people. Please remember that. I know I will. He was my big brother, and always was my hero. And now he's everyone else's, too. It's a good thing he's not around to lord it over us, isn't it? See, there's a silver lining to every dark cloud, it seems._

_And speaking of your previous letters, there seems to be one ray of light in your most recent one. Is this Seeker you wrote about the same one who questioned you over the book you wrote about us? I think I might've heard of her. Didn't she serve the Divine after some great battle? If this is the same woman, she's a very experienced warrior. And it sounds as if you've changed your tune quite a bit, even if you never were too fond of Chantry-types. Just as well, she doesn't deserve you, but if anything changes, write me back immediately. The other wardens have stories to share, but none involving such romantics as you always have on offer…_

"Do you still blame yourself…?" Cassandra asked quietly, breaking his concentration.

He looked up then to find her patiently sitting in silence at the end of the bed, staring at her lap in a somewhat meditative state. "Sometimes," he confessed, focusing on the paper as he folded it on its creases once more. "Not often, but I still have my moments… Comes with the territory of losing someone so close, I guess."

As she nodded her acceptance of this, Varric was at a loss for what else to say on the matter. They'd had this talk before and the Seeker had already stated her belief that he shouldn't give credence to such thoughts, but grief like that wasn't something that could simply disappear over a few conversations, even if what she'd said made perfect sense. The fact that she understood that pain spoke to her own regrets, whether it was Hawke or Regalyan for whom she felt somewhat responsible.

Still, it was in those moments of mourning that their initial bonds had solidified, where they had formed a mutual understanding of one another through the fires of life's worst trials. If any good had come from that loss, it had been their whirlwind love affair, however brief it had lasted.

"You know me," he said, getting up to place the letter on the side table to keep himself from looking directly at her, "I do what I can to avoid having fingers pointed at me for any given reason. There's just…" He sighed softly, urging himself to let go enough to be honest with her once again. "I don't know. It's hard not to take the blame for my part in this… Maybe that's your influence on me."

Cassandra shook her head, nonplussed by his statement. " _My_ influence?"

At Mouse's insistent mewl, Varric made his way to the exit and unlatched the door, letting his cat slip past his legs to escape out the small crack for her nightly prowl. Closing it again, he walked back toward the bed to reclaim his spot against the headboard. "Until you came along, Seeker, I was inclined to sit back and watch how things unfolded before I even thought about getting involved. If I didn't take responsibility, it was easy to avoid doing anything potentially harmful. But you're a woman of action who actually _likes_ to fix shit that's broken, and the more time I spend around you, the more I see how lazy my thinking was. So, I guess taking the blame for my part helps motivate me to get off my ass and do something productive."

There was a long pause before the Seeker began to smile to herself, shaking her head slightly as she huffed out the trace of a small laugh. "It's funny," she observed sardonically. "I can still tell when you're lying. Even if it is meant to flatter me."

He chuckled to himself in good humour. "That easy to tell, huh?"

"You made a gallant effort. But yes."

Letting out an exaggerated sigh, he leaned over until his shoulder hit the mattress, propping his head up on an arm. "Anyway, you didn't come here to listen to me lie," he mumbled, seizing the moment to avoid talking about Sunshine's letter, especially before she could ask what he had written to pique the warden's interest in the first place. "Is this about our little tavern brawl?"

She didn't turn to face him, but he thought her eyes had widened simply by the alarmed tone in her hard voice. "No. Oh. Should it be?"

He was so much less offended by that than he should have been, the smirk that overtook his mouth evident in his gruff tone. "You're not here to _apologise?"_

Cassandra sat upright, her face turning halfway toward him, the sharp lines of her profile highlighted by the subtle dance of the candle flames. Her intense blush was obvious, even from the odd angle. "You practically _begged_ me to hit you! I remember it clearly!"

There was something about her defensiveness that struck him as hilarious, but Varric had to reign it in before she suddenly decided to strike him of her own accord. "I know, I know." Grinning from ear to pierced ear, he rubbed at his chin and cast his eyes down at the quilt beneath him. "So, Seeker, how can I be of service to you, tonight…?"

His last question, spoken softly as he lay on his bed in the stillness of the night, held an innuendo that he'd not intended, and merely recognising the subtle implications behind his words was enough to stir familiar feelings of desire within him. Before those desires could make themselves evident to her, he brought his knees up slightly to disguise the telltale signs pressing against his trouser front, masking the awkwardness he felt with a soft cough and fighting the blush brought on by the rush of blood through his body.

Cassandra leaned forward, her elbows propped against her knees, and he breathed an internal sigh of relief that she hadn't detected his distress. "I…" She lowered her head in some inward struggle with herself. "…I've been thinking since we spoke outside the War Room the other day, and…" Letting out a gentle, derisive scoff, she sighed in frustration, waving a hand before herself as if she could coax her thoughts out through physical provocation alone. "Damn it… And I… think I should tell you that I… _Ugh! Maker,_ why can't I say it?!"

The amusement her lack of cohesiveness usually gave him in these situations was disturbingly lacking, but he thought to break the ice with a small jest, anyway. "…That you find me too desirable to resist? I get that a lot, Seeker. It's the chest hair, isn't it? Relax, I'll save you the embarrassment and put on a shirt," he smirked, moving to the edge of the bed towards his clothes piled on the floor.

"Varric," she stopped him, laying a hand firmly on his knee, "don't… make this difficult. I still haven't found the right way to say this to you…"

Concern knotting his guts uncomfortably, the dwarf swallowed hard in an attempt to alleviate the dryness of his throat. It was instinctual to lower his hand, resting it over hers and giving her tense fingers a reassuring squeeze. She was warmer to the touch, but no longer gave off heat like a furnace, and that single observation gave him pause. "…Seeker, do you still trust me?"

At that, her face contorted in guilt, and she wiped at her cheeks fiercely to hide the hot tears that had spilled forth without warning. "Ye–" The rawness cut her voice off, and she could no longer speak around the lump in her throat, instead nodding over and over for a few moments until she could let out a smooth breath.

Her hand clasping his desperately, Varric leaned back ever so slowly, pulling her back until Cassandra lay beside him. "I'm not going to force you to say or do anything, alright…? Just take a minute to think about it, and I'll be here when you're ready."

Though she stared up at the ceiling, he saw her broad smile of appreciation in profile, watching the nature of it change to a silent sob as she closed her eyes tightly, tears running down over the dark veins on her temple. His heart tearing in two at the sight, he reached across the bed to wipe them away with his thumb, caressing her ashen skin to comfort her. "Shh, don't cry, baby," he whispered, candlelight glistening over the tear tracts, "whatever it is, it's going to be okay. I promise…"

"No, it _won't_ ," she cried softly, sniffing as she brought her hands up to brush over her cheekbones. She ran a finger absently over the prominent scar running down to her jaw, and his own traced the deep line, the gentle touch on her old wound causing her to reach back up to grasp his hand in hers. Lying beside him, their hands clasped together this way, she began to push through to him. "Maker, I don't deserve your kindness for what I have done… You were right to be suspicious, but… I did not want you to think less of me, or to hurt you, so I… Oh, Andraste, preserve me…"

Varric's heart sank at her words, so pitiful and bereft of the strength she was known for. A keen sense of horrible foreboding overcame him, and he steeled himself for the worst. "What's this all about?" he whispered gruffly through a catch in his throat. "Did… did you do something?"

There was a long pause while Cassandra resolved her mind, the muscles in her jaw clenching as she gritted her teeth in preparation. Slowly but surely, she closed her eyes and rolled toward him, their hands still joined in the tight space between them on his bed, where the dormant Holy Symbol of Andraste slid to rest upon the tattered quilt. Any amorous ideas he might have entertained earlier had long-since evaporated without a trace. Now only heartfelt worry for her filled his bones, and with a racing mind, he held his breath in anticipation of the coming blow.

And then her dark lids lifted… revealing something he had never expected to see.

Since that awful night in the dungeon, Varric had never looked at her so openly as he did now. Either the lighting had been too dim, or they had been standing too far apart, or Cassandra had neatly avoided his gaze, effectively keeping her secret hidden from view.

But now, she had laid herself bare to him… and all of his subconscious alarms were suddenly justified by the look in her eyes, so broken… and pleading… and…

"Seeker," he tried to breathe, unable to break his stare, nor hide the horror in his voice, "your eyes are brown…"

She bit her trembling lip, looking down in guilt for a moment before meeting his frozen gaze once more. "Yes," she confirmed, "and I must now accept the blame for my role in that."

He sat up far too quickly, the room whirling around him. Collapsing in a sitting position against the headboard, he held his spinning head and tried to make sense of what he had seen.

But he couldn't.

"Your _eyes_ are _brown_ ," he repeated himself, as if saying it again would trigger his mind to accept the truth. "What the fu – I mean, how did you…?!"

And then his vision settled on her, the woman he still loved more than he'd ever thought possible now sitting directly in front of him, kneeling forward on her palms and holding the most vulnerable look he'd ever seen in her eyes…

Her fucking _brown_ eyes.

"What did you _do?!"_ he seethed, desperate to catch his breath even as it poured in and out of his lungs to keep up with his racing heart.

His accusation broke her, and Cassandra crumbled before him, her hands latching on to him as if to keep herself from drowning all over again. "…H-he said if I took just a little at a time that the pain would –"

" _He?_ Who's _he?"_

And then it hit him like a punch to the gut, realisation causing him to reel back. "Oh, come on, Seeker – _tell me_ you didn't take advice from fucking _Samson_ of all people!"

"He said it would relieve my pain, that it would h-help extend my life," she sobbed openly, ashamed of what she had done, "and when I saw what could potentially _happen_ to me if I didn't do _something_ –"

"You _believed him?!"_ Varric lunged forward, gripping her by the shoulders to shake sense into her, desperate for his words to sink in. "So _what,_ you snorted his Maker-damned _ashes while I wasn't looking?!_ I've been _trying_ to do something, baby! Shit, I'm trying to _save_ you, and you go and do the one thing that…"

His arms went weak and fell slack at his sides, the horror of the situation bearing down on him until tears threatened to well and spill over his cheeks. "…The one thing that would break me…"

She cupped his face in her hands, heedless of the tears on her own face so she could wipe away his. "Varric, listen to me," she begged, aware that she had no right to ask him to hear her explanation. "I know you must feel like I have betrayed you. I _know_ that I have. I thought of Cullen, and how I had encouraged him to remain as Commander despite what the lyrium withdrawal had done to him. But if I was to remain in my position and continue contributing, I believed that I must take drastic measures if I was to survive long enough for a cure…"

She swallowed hard, nearly pulling herself into his lap in her desolation. "I was _wrong…_ The nightmares returned tonight, and soon the pain will follow. I can feel the echoes in my blood even now, and I… I a-almost drank more, but I came here instead… Varric, I-I'm _terrified_ … _"_

He couldn't say a word, couldn't utter a sound beyond the helpless whimper that escaped his lungs. It was far too much to take, his heart breaking for himself, for her, for everything she had done…

"Please, Varric," she bade him urgently, "say something. _Anything._ I deserve your anger… _Please…_ Tell me to leave, and I will go… _"_

She might as well have struck him across the face for all it had done to restore his breathing. He'd forgotten to in all that time, and his eyes searched for hers through the pain. "No, don't go," he blinked hard to bring himself back around.

Cassandra looked up at his words, stunned. "…But…"

He shook his head at her firmly. "You said your nightmares are back?"

She frowned at him warily. "Y-yes, but I can –"

"And the pain'll come soon, won't it?"

At her weak nod, he slid down to rest his aching head against the pillow, reaching blindly out toward her to bring her to rest against his solid chest. "Stay with me," he breathed, wrapping his arms around her form protectively. "I won't abandon you now. In the morning, I'll go to your quarters and get rid of whatever red lyrium you were stupid enough to stash away. Andraste's _sake_ , Cassandra, that was so _stupid of you_ ," he wept aloud, unable to shield his grief any longer.

She was weeping, too… He could feel her body racking as hot tears fell against his chest, flowing freely. "I know," she said, clutching him desperately. "You were right…"

Holding her close, he stated one last condition, injecting command into his tone to highlight his seriousness on the matter. "Just promise me that you will never, _ever_ do that again. To me _or_ to yourself…"

"…I promise," she managed to say before the vow could be choked off. She gasped hard, clutching his solid, reassuring presence to her dying body, still lost in a state of disbelief at his unexpected mercy.

He let out a massive sigh, leaning up only long enough to blow out the candles and cover them both with the old quilt. Grateful, if not for his understanding then for his acceptance, she curled against him, the two holding one another as wisps of wick smoke filled the cold air. If anything, he would be warmer tonight…

"Try to sleep, baby," he whispered, stroking her hair gently in the darkness. "I'll be here when the nightmares come… And I'll find a cure… I'm not giving up on you. Just don't give up on me, either, okay?"

Unable to set aside her emotions, Cassandra gripped his shoulder and held tight as she cried through the pain. _"Varric,"_ the Seeker sobbed, shaking in his arms, "I was wrong about everything… I believed you would hate me, but you shame me instead… Will you ever find it in your heart to forgive me…?"

Tears pooled in his eyes, and he closed heavy lids to push them away, the evidence of his deepest sorrow trailing down his face to fall on his pillow. Lowering his chin to plant a kiss on her hair, he relaxed and felt exhaustion lull him into a dull state of existence…

"I already did," he confessed to her. "…A long time ago…"

And they fell asleep in each other's arms once more, Varric's last conscious thoughts resting on a quiet prayer for deliverance…


	30. Nothing He Has Wrought Shall Be Lost

Light bled in through narrow slits between the wood boards of the ceiling, the blood orange light of dawn softening to a crystal blue as the minutes ticked past. She awoke in the dark some time ago, after which confusion had set in, and she could not for the life of her fathom why the roof appeared so alien to her memory. Holes were glaringly missing, and the perspective was askew, placing her somewhere in the centre of the room rather than the far corner. Even the slope and overall shape was off, and it was difficult to distinguish why through the dull throb pulsing through her head.

A deep breath was taken and released, but not by her. The body beside her stirred with a soft groan, turning toward her fevered form to wrap her in solid arms of hair and muscle and bared, sun-kissed flesh. A sleepy nuzzle, a gentle sigh, and the man was fast asleep once more, cosy and content, wrapped in an antiquated quilt of unknown origins. Her legs felt like glass, skin like paper, eyes like fine sand, but the coolness of his chest against her burning shoulder was heaven-sent, and for a moment she believed it all to be a dream.

But, oh, it wasn't… And with a blink, the blanket of night rolled over her, enveloping her memories with the sweet strains of an unearned absolution.

She was in his room, as she had been throughout the night, lying beside a golden heart of good intentions belonging to a man for whom she fiercely cared, but did not deserve. Indeed, he had shown himself to be more honourable toward her than even the countless nobles she'd had the misfortune to meet in her lifetime, someone who had every reason to give up, but never did. This outcome had been unimaginable when she had approached his door with trepidation, and yet to wake in his arms after a hellish night of battling her own demons and suppressing hissing whispers… She must admit that she owed him quite a debt. One that would be impossible to repay…

Cassandra shifted to face him, her scarred cheek against the clumping pillow as she studied Varric for what felt like hours, contemplating phrases that might best describe her state of mind, but as always, her vocabulary was blunt and lacking the sort of poetry she felt was necessary. To have his gift for wordplay now would go a long way toward revealing her true heart to him, but it was a skill she had tried and failed to acquire. Maker, how ironic that a man forever severed from dreams himself still contributed to hers so regularly…

It was as her eyes lifted to his that she found him staring back at her in the stillness of the morning songs outside, his face tinged with the subtle tugs of the first smile of the day. A smile of greeting, the corner of his lips upturned as if to say how gladdened he felt to see her there. After a moment longer, he broke the intense stare and shifted in discomfort, a concerned thought reflecting on his face as his brow wrinkled in consternation.

"…What are you thinking right now?" she whispered out of curiosity, her voice hoarse from sleep. "In this very moment?"

He took a slow, deliberate breath into his lungs, bringing his mind back down to settle on the bed with him. His sleepy eyes looked off to the side, narrowing slightly, and the words broke from his lips like smooth stones tumbling in a glass jar. "I'm thinking," he started carefully, the near-imperceptible pause indicating that he was searching for something else to reveal besides his true thoughts, "that I'm pretty sure I left Bianca's notes in Sera's room, last night… Hope she didn't scribble all over them."

She closed her dark lids, letting loose a gentle sigh and dismissing the calculated dodge in an instant. How blessed she was to have someone in her life who thought of her from the moment he awoke, continuing the search long after she had surrendered her life to the Maker's will. "You've been analysing her research," she said aloud, looking deep into the whiskey eyes of the dwarf. She knew any reminders of the woman must bring about memories too raw to touch, yet he had done so regardless, for her sake. Even if he had found nothing in the end, it was the thought that counted most.

"Yeah…" He held a pained expression for the fraction of a second before wiping it from his face, making her doubt whether she had truly seen it. "…What about you?"

Her heart softened. She had been wondering how to express just that since turning over, and now that the moment had arrived, the words poured from her chest without hesitation: "I am thinking that… it's mornings like these that I have missed so terribly."

Varric's smirk returned in a flash, and he brought his hand up to clasp her own over the sheets. "Shit," he shook his head, "I really should've said that first."

A contented silence draped over them then, not having much else to say yet not compelled to fill the still air with conversation. All communication was done through the subtle dance of their eyes and the steady rhythm of breathing, enjoying the presence of one another's company above all else.

Without warning, though, his face fell ashen, skin cracking as he sneered and lurched toward her with bared teeth. Cassandra jerked back with a gasp, nerves pinching excruciatingly while her body stiffened and seized. The world fell to darkness, thunder and screams filling her ears until she thought blood would surely pour from them. Voices like claws, pain like fire, hot air thick as smoke and too difficult to breathe.

Though she was aware of what had ensnared her, the knowledge did less than nothing to push reality aside. The song was shrill, head ready to explode, blocking all thoughts beyond survival from her brain. They were nightmares, these surges, ones from which she could not escape, following her into the waking world once again. It felt worse than before, but lasted only so long as it took for the amulet to work its mysterious magic, the warm, pure glow penetrating her ribs to protect her heart from the spread of the invasion.

Her vision returned as the screeches died, the battle won for now… only for her to discover a heavy weight bearing down on her chest.

Varric was holding her tight, his quivering breaths revealing the shock that had overtaken him. Without a doubt, Cassandra knew he had heard the voices, which had been more like shrieks than the usual whispers. How she knew this went unexplained even to herself, but there was a gut feeling when the speculation reached her, and she trusted it wholeheartedly. Momentarily recovered, she swallowed hard and patted him, urging him to loosen his grip around her by distracting his mind.

"Tell me a secret," she beckoned with a hand over his arm in reassurance. The distraction would do wonders for them both, she wagered, and though the pain lingered in her skull, she preferred not to speak of it, lest talk of death and dying ruin the moment they'd nearly shared.

The dwarf was still trembling slightly, but his soft laugh revealed that he was at least tempted to alleviate the tension coursing through his bones. "U-uh… I once lost a game of Diamondback to Hawke's mabari," he confessed shakily, shifting to collapse on her pillow. A hand raised to run fingers through his loose hair, urging his heart rate back down as he disguised the effects of his panic. "Lost my nicest boots to that mutt… I spent my last eighty silver on the pair only a week before, and he chewed them to bits in a matter of minutes," he tried to smile. "…Story of my life, come to think of it."

There would be no swaying Varric to move away even had she wanted him to give her room, but the closeness offered a semblance of intimacy. Although she could no longer focus on his gaze this close, at least she could listen to the slowing thump of his racing heart.

"Another," Cassandra whispered, though it was not a command so much as a desperate plea.

Brushing the hair over his crown, he let out a deep sigh, finally catching his breath. It was working, whether he realised her distraction or not. "Sometimes when you grunt after something I said," she heard him smile through his words, "and you make that noise you do when you're repulsed, I get a little rush… Like I've done my job and you're grudgingly acknowledging my success."

She surprised herself with a soft laugh as he brought his arm to rest beneath her head, sudden tears welling for no reason that she could deem immediate. "…One more, Varric."

He thought for a long while, and if he happened to notice the teardrop that fell on his bicep, he drew no attention to it beyond resting his chin against her forehead. When at last he'd found something worth revealing, she felt an almost indecipherable change alter his breathing. "…When I took you to Redcliffe after…" Here he paused, hoping she would recall the night at the inn without having to go into detail. Everything about their stay was vague to her, but she followed along nonetheless. Brushing past the sad memory, he told her, "I was talking to one of the mages they'd called to heal you, and during the conversation, he… referred to me as your husband." As if this wasn't a great enough revelation by itself, he added more, an odd crack in his raspy voice, as if he could hardly believe it himself. "I know it sounds weird, but I didn't bother correcting the kid."

Cassandra shifted, leaning away a few inches to better study him. The wind stolen from her lungs, she shook her head slowly and managed to utter a choked, "Why not?"

His head echoed her own movements, the lost back and forth motion conveying that he understood his actions about as well as she did. "I don't know," he admitted with an apologetic shrug. "He caught me by surprise at a bad time, and I guess I just… didn't wanna get pedantic about it. And after all the guilt cutting me down that day and the hard ride north, those words were the only thing I'd heard that… made me feel good about myself. Like I could be proud of that assumption, even if it was wrong."

Her astonishment was laid bare on her features, the lump in her throat preventing anything she might have said in response. Greatly moved, she reached a hand absently to her chest, grasping the pendant hanging from her neck in a silent prayer for mercy.

"Now you tell me one," he bid her, stroking his thumb over her temple to wipe away the tears he'd noticed at last.

Brought back from her inner musings, Cassandra looked up to meet his eyes, now smiling at her knowingly. She could tell what he was thinking: For as long as they'd known each other, she had been the one to demand secrets, answers, explanations. But now it was her turn to bear the questioning, and with a gentle turn of her mouth, she relaxed and lowered her head to the pillow once more so she could look upon his face while she spoke. Remembering that he had started with an amusing yet fond confession, she began with her own:

"The first nobleman my Uncle Vestalus granted permission to court me said to me after a month of strained visits, _'Lady Cassandra, do at least_ try _to be more feminine. If I desired to wed a man, I would be courting your brother.'"_ She thickened her Navarran accent as she imitated the young, arrogant noble, deepening her voice in a condescending tone. "I turned to him in the parlour, batted my eyelashes, bowed my head with the level of subservience expected of me, and apologised meekly for my brutish behaviour toward him. Then I asked him to perhaps judge my daintiness for himself with a kiss."

"Uh oh," Varric grinned, knowing her well enough to see where her tale was headed.

She returned the smile, all but sparkling with relived mischief. "When he closed his eyes and leaned down with that smug smile of his, thinking I had at long last acquiesced to his tiresome, chauvinistic demands, I shattered his giant nose in a crushing headbutt. The man screamed like a little girl as I wiped the blood from my brow. He never came back."

Laughing appreciatively, the dwarf sucked a breath through his teeth. "Good for you! He had that coming," he patted her hand in belated congratulations for her quick thinking. That wasn't the reaction she'd received from the nobleman, nor her uncle, but it was nice to at least have support now. "How old were you? I thought you joined the Seekers after your brother died. Weren't you pretty young when that happened?"

"I was," she nodded. "I was only twelve when the mages killed Anthony before my eyes. I must have been around eleven when the suitors began lining up. My Uncle was a powerful figure in the Grand Necro –"

"Eleven?!" Varric rolled to his back, a hand on his hair as he stared wide-eyed at the ceiling.

Smirking sardonically at his surprise, Cassandra more than agreed with his outrage, but her culture's more distasteful aspects were unfortunately all too familiar to her from an early age. "Marriage grants political power to the spouse by default. As soon as a young maiden of stature has her first bleed, she becomes eligible for such 'arrangements'. I hid the evidence of my maturation, thinking my uncle was not involved enough in my life to notice, but his maidservants had been ordered to watch for signs and ratted me out before too long."

He blinked several times, clearly trying to wrap his mind around the very idea of a mere child being bartered for power. "Sheesh," he muttered, "and I thought I had it bad when Bartrand pushed me into the Merchants' Guild. At least that was just business."

"Hmm," Cassandra sighed through closed lips, a small hum thrumming through her throat. "Among nobles, marriage _is_ business… But I am glad that I escaped the life which was laid out for me. Joining the Seekers after Anthony was murdered saved me. They offered a purpose beyond myself and the anger consuming me. And working for the Divine gave me direction while also granting me more freedom to act as I chose…"

Beside her, Varric took a deep breath, letting it out as he remained staring up at the practically crumbling ceiling. The arm she once rested upon reached out for her again, and she scooted toward him, resting a hand against his chest as he curled it around her shoulders, his fingers scratching lightly over her tunic.

Though the silence was enjoyable, the feel of his chest hair beneath her palm warm and soothing, she was plagued by yet one more thought. He hadn't asked for more from her, but it became far too much to contain, the stray thought moving past her lips in a soft confession.

"…My mother gave birth to me unexpectedly in a carriage on the road from Val Chevin to Cumberland," Cassandra said, giving voice to the secret she'd held within for so long. "It must have been a portent. All my life, I've had the strange sensation that I'm halfway between where I was and… where I'm meant to be."

It was completely true, though it sounded so unlike the image she projected. In the heat of a tense moment, she could raise her sword high and charge at a line of snarling enemies, or act before giving herself enough time to second guess her instincts. Confident, assured, faithful… and yet, ever on the move without achieving the satisfaction that she'd truly arrived. Whether it was the Seekers, the Inquisition, her love life, or indeed her life itself, she had never experienced the sense that she was accomplishing all she could in this world…

Varric kept his silence at her side, only a deep, thoughtful hum reverberating from his throat. Perhaps he felt much the same as she had for so many years, caught in the void between home and heart, his feet straddling either side of a widening chasm as he tried to keep balance. And it struck her suddenly that much of her uncertainty seemed to dissipate whenever she was lying in his arms.

Stretching at last, the dwarf curled his toes and yawned, Cassandra raising her head for him to take back his arm. His spine cracked a few times before he groaned with relief, smiling at her out of the corner of his eye before rolling to the edge of the bed, where he sat up to slip a loose tunic over his head. He was right, she thought as he passed his arms through the sleeves of his vest. It was time to start the day, but she disliked the idea of separating now.

Getting to her knees, the Seeker crawled and sat close behind him on the lumpy mattress, taking the leather thong from his hand and surprising him by combing his hair back with her fingers through his ginger locks. He let her tie his hair back for him as he buttoned the front of his vest, and when it was secure, she draped her arms over his broad shoulders, pressing herself against his back in an alluring motion. Once again acting without much forethought, Cassandra brushed the loose hairs from his neck and pressed her lips to his flushed skin, resisting a smile when she noticed him pause.

"And where do you think _you're_ going, Varric…?" she asked, planting another soft kiss on the exposed skin of his shoulder, her hands exploring his shirtfront.

He managed a rueful chuckle, reaching up to touch her cheek as he sighed deeply. "You picked a fine time to make your move, Seeker," he said with utmost reluctance. "Sorry, I can't, right now. I've gotta go."

"It's not like you to be so eager to begin your paperwork," she teased, moving to take his earlobe between her teeth.

He shuddered, and although he didn't push her away immediately, clearly enjoying her rapt attention, Varric stilled her hands, holding them in his own. "Nah, not paperwork," he clarified, the tone of his gravelly voice changing in quality. "First things first: I need to get that shit out of your room and properly dispose of it. Where'd you stash it?"

Cassandra froze for a moment at the thought of her smuggled red lyrium before slumping over his shoulders in disappointment. "I separated it into little glass vials and placed them all beneath my smallclothes in the chest of drawers. The one beneath my window," she reminded him, despite there being only one dresser to speak of in her quarters.

Patting her arm, he took on a devilish grin, and though she couldn't see it from her angle, she heard it carry on his voice easily enough. "Well, well. You trust me to rummage through your panty drawer?"

"Ugh," she scoffed under her breath. "It isn't like there's anything of interest in there at the _best_ of times." Raising her head, she placed her hand on his jaw, turning his head to face her. "Must you do that now? Can't it wait…?"

His amber eyes wandered over her features, resting on her lips after a moment. Her heart quickened, feeling her victory close at hand.

But it was short-lived.

"Sorry, Seeker," Varric winced, clearly fighting the urges she had stirred in him, "but I have to get going if I want to make good time."

By the look on his face, she could tell he was planning to leave more than just his quarters. "Where?" she asked, somewhat stunned by this news out of nowhere. "I'll come with you."

He shook his head apologetically. "Just to be on the safe side, you should stay put for now." Shifting his body toward her at her sudden frown, he hurriedly added, "I don't want anything happening to you. If you go out there and nobody's around to help if shit goes down, I'd never forgive –" Biting his lip, the dwarf pushed her hands away gently and bent to pull on his socks from the day before. "Anyway, sorry to cut this short, but I really need to get a move-on."

Cassandra lowered her head, thoroughly confused as to why he was even leaving Skyhold in the first place. "I will miss you greatly," she confessed, searching for her own boots as he buckled his own.

Finishing with the straps, he grabbed his coat and found her boots, tossing them into her lap. "I'll be back before you know it," Varric promised. A thought struck him, and he smiled painfully. "I think I'll take Chuckles with me, all things considered."

Dorian's revelation on the first floor of the tavern came back in an instant, and she couldn't suppress the scowl that narrowed her angled brows. "Why _him?"_ she grumbled.

He fastened the buttons of his red coat with a practiced ease and tied a grey sash around his waist, wrapping a thick leather belt over to secure it in place. "Well, it's probably a good idea to get him out of the Herald's spell range for a while," he joked sardonically. "Besides, I need to talk to him about a couple things. Just guy stuff; nothing important." Lastly, he slung his arms into the harness resting on his back and pulled Bianca out from under the bed frame, bringing her to rest over his shoulder.

Unable to disguise her disappointment, she looked down at her boots and shook her head. "All right," she mumbled with reluctance. "Goodbye, I suppose…" There was a slight pause as she stewed in her own juices, annoyed that she hadn't acted on her more ravenous impulses sooner.

Without warning, Varric stepped forward and cupped her chin in his calloused palms, and she raised her glaring eyes just before his lips enveloped her own. Surprised, the Seeker gasped, hands automatically raising to cradle his as he deepened the kiss, his morning stubble leaving its mark on her paled, sensitive skin. The spontaneity of the moment quickened her pulse, stirring feelings she'd once thought dead.

What lingered between them, despite their trials, was unspoken, but it was something.

No. Maker, it was _everything…_

He pulled back after a time, the sincerity of his expression piercing her spirit. "Hold onto that thought for a few weeks, Seeker," he whispered breathlessly, adoration in his whiskey eyes. "Sit tight and behave yourself. I'll see you later."

And with that, Varric was gone.

**~oOo~**

The next ferry to cross the Waking Sea wasn't as packed as the captain had first let on from the southern shore. Judging by the way the precarious waters rocked the glorified lifeboat to and fro on the swells of the turbulent sea and the glower on the gnarled man's heavily-bearded face, he wagered that many of the expected passengers from the throng along the docks had refused to board the vessel at the last minute, robbing the captain of a generous swath of anticipated earnings. More than once, the human had grumbled that the few who did pay the fee hardly justified the journey and that his trip was a wasted one. But as for Varric, his hopes were invested in the complete opposite.

He stood with his feet spread wide at the bow as the ferry skirted the last of the island coasts, hearing the grinning strains of Isabela's voice echo through his memory as he bore her seafaring tips in mind: "Just go with the flow, Varric," she had winked upon seeing the greenish hue of his cheeks on the deck of her ship before his new life with the Inquisition had begun. "Watch the horizon and don't lock your knees. Breathe the fresh air! Do that, and this'll feel like the best sex of your life."

Well, if this was what Rivaini considered great sex, he'd had better – and despite the "fresh air," the smell of salt and dead fish wasn't helping much, either.

He kept his eyes trained on the horizon line just as she advised, though the sea pitched and dropped with enough dizzying frequency that his stomach soured all the same. Still, even as the sun poked through the clouds and glared off the surface of the sea, he knew he'd damn-well risk losing his breakfast rations if it meant discovering a cure. Travel and sleeplessness had distorted his perception of time, making it feel like weeks had passed since leaving Skyhold rather than the reality of just days – not to mention the anxiety writhing in his belly as he reminded himself that time was closing in.

"She tucks the ace into her thigh-high boot when the sail snaps and his head turns. The king didn't see, but you wouldn't say. She won that hand, and the next one, too."

Varric hadn't thought his stomach could drop harder than it already had, but the words over his right shoulder proved him wrong. "Well," he sighed in dismay, "I _thought_ I felt like someone was watching us. Not that I'm mad or anything, but you should've said something sooner."

"I know," the voice answered softly, though no one was there when Varric turned on his good heel to face him. "I tried not to follow, but there was too much hurt."

"You don't have to hide from me, Kid. Just don't let the man-in-charge see you."

It took a few moments of hesitance on Cole's part before he faded into view, the sparse number of passengers around him not flinching in the slightest. At least the Kid could control who noticed him – and who didn't. Varric would have to figure out a way to slip the captain the coin for another ticket without getting himself thrown overboard for trying to cheat him.

"I can do that," Cole answered the unspoken thought, holding his hand out for the silvers.

"Right," he mumbled his acknowledgement with a curt nod, digging into his pocket for change.

"I'm sorry. I thought I'd be needed," he apologised breathily, cupping the coins the dwarf handed him. While Varric talked to seemingly himself and handed the ticket fee to his invisible friend, a young boy of no more than ten years standing at his father's side nearby widened his eyes in amazement. Winking at the child, Varric flicked a coin in his direction, and the boy caught it with a grin, keeping the mystery of what he had witnessed to himself.

"I-I like travelling with dwarves," the spirit added as he stepped forward carefully, placing his hand on the foremast as he made his way to the stern.

He couldn't help but laugh at Cole's innocent admission. "Glad to hear it, kid," he said, stumbling as the boat dipped below his boots. Varric reached out to grab the mainmast before he quite literally hit the deck.

"You're quiet," the Kid continued, following in his unsteady footsteps, "but the old song still echoes inside. Almost like templars."

What did he mean by that? Was that a Fade thing? Mentally waving the remarks aside, Varric caught sight of his companions gathered at the stern. It was fitting that these three would be positioned where they could look back rather than forward.

"…strive for hope, although I cannot dismiss my doubts that we will uncover anything pertaining to a definitive cure on this journey."

"Doesn't hurt to look. We're running out of options, Solas, but _not_ looking is as good as surrendering."

"Indeed, Blackwall. All avenues must be explored, however improbable they may appear."

"Let's all just hope for the best. I'd hate for us to return empty-handed. Shall we –?" Dorian caught sight of Varric's queasy pallor from the corner of his eye and instantly turned to make room for him on the low rail. "Ah! Varric, you're looking… rather disgruntled."

"That's one way of putting it, Sparkler," he gurgled his response, ready to vomit in the ferry's wake if the urge struck. " _Eugh_ … Almost there. This trip isn't a long one, but I'd prefer solid ground, all things considered."

Without needing to ask what was ailing him, Solas reached out with long fingers and placed them on the dwarf's clammy forehead, casting a spell that helped balance his equilibrium and combat the rising nausea. Within moments, Varric felt better than he had all day.

"That should help until we reach dry land," the apostate reassured him with a soft pat on his shoulder.

Breathing slowly, he closed his eyes with relief and felt the spinning of the world at sea slow to a tolerable, if not pleasant, degree. "Thanks… I think that might've done the trick, actually."

The men around him fell into an awkward silence, none all too keen to resume their conversation in his presence. Just as well. Varric had dealt with enough pessimism from himself to put up with any from his friends.

Changing the subject, he looked up at their faces and shrugged. "We've got ourselves a stowaway," he tested them, wondering if anyone else besides him had noticed.

Dorian stared down at him nonplussed. "Pardon?" He looked to Blackwall for clarification, who only made to place a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Solas, however, appeared to comprehend the situation and winced, turning to watch the islands recede further and further away. "Forgive me: I attempted to dissuade him, but he's been unwilling to remove himself from my presence since I returned from Crestwood."

"Oh, I see," the altus' brows raised. "That explains my odd paranoia these past few nights. I've grown used to having eyes on me wherever I go, but not necessarily the 'invisible spirit' variety."

Something in what the elf had said caused Blackwall to glower in frustration, and he gripped the railing as if it were the man's throat. "You've got a lot of nerve, Solas. Our discussion back in the Emerald Graves was _obviously_ meant to be kept private. Lifting Varric's excuses for not courting the Lady Seeker and offering them up to Lavellan was not just unfair to her, but you broke a solemn, unspoken code between better men," he growled, the clear contempt he felt audible in his tone. "The Inquisitor didn't deserve that. An honest answer from the heart would have been better than what you gave her instead."

"Ah…" As the would-be warden voiced his opinion, Solas clasped his hands at the small of his back, appearing to take the man's commentary in stride, tucking his angular chin low to his chest. "If that is what you believe I've done, then better to have your outrage than your understanding, which I wouldn't accept, in any case. I had not asked her to accompany me with the intention in mind, but in the end, breaking certain ties proved… necessary. Nevertheless, I respect your judgment in defence of our Inquisitor. You are correct: she deserves better than what I could have offered her."

The scowl fell from Blackwall's beard, his expression one of guarded confusion.

"You think that by agreeing with you, I am mocking you in some fashion," the elf observed, disheartened. "This age has made people cynical."

The subject was uncomfortable enough without Dorian adding fuel to the fire. "And how is your face, today, Solas?" he asked, no hint of his usual smirk in sight.

"About as well as your hand, I expect," the apostate snapped back in an instant.

Sighing, Varric felt his stomach turn for another reason entirely, throwing his arms up as he turned from the railing. "Can't we just _pretend_ to get along until this is over? If you can't find it in yourselves to be friendly, let's just try to keep things civil. Whatever happened between you and Inquisitor Lavellan is your business. There are two sides to every story, after all."

Feigning to not have heard the statement, Solas turned to look toward Cole, who had stood as a silent observer thus far in the conversation. Unable to overhear their exchange (if there actually was one), the elven apostate simply shook his head at the spirit, as if disagreeing with an unspoken sentiment of Cole's.

"As you wish." Pursing his lips, Hero turned and strode across the deck to the standing shelter, where the captain remained firmly at the helm. "Are we sailing close to land, yet?" he asked, shading his eyes as he looked over the sloshing waters for signs of solid ground.

"'Bout an hour, with favourable winds," the captain informed him curtly. "I'll be dropping you lot at a nondescript dock on the Wounded Coast. If you choose to head up to what's left of the damned city, the paths are marked. And if you didn't bring a map, that's your problem, mate."

Varric's gut tightened exponentially at the sight of familiar cliff faces in the distance. _Home,_ his heart beat with sickening recognition. Kirkwall wasn't far from where they were ultimately headed, and therefore he should have expected to view the massive stones flanking the passage to the harbour, but expectations it seemed would never outmatch reality. His chest ached at the thought of going to her now, so run-down and broken since he'd last seen her… And to be honest, he was in no better condition, himself.

"You want to see her," the Kid spoke fluidly at his side, yet also from somewhere buried in his mind. "She calls to you, singing old songs, screaming older hurts. She was always scarred, but not to you… That changed, though."

Dorian glanced down at the dwarf, a question furrowing his dark brows. "Is he talking about Cassandra?"

Varric swallowed around the hard lump in his throat. "No," he uttered gruffly, offering no more clarification than that.

Someday, he would lay eyes on her again. Just… not today. No, he wasn't ready for a homecoming, just yet.

"You aren't now," the Kid answered his thoughts on a more intimate level, "but when the time comes, you will be… She misses you, too, Varric."

At that, the dwarf cleared his stinging throat and retrieved his flask, momentarily turning his back on his former life to avoid the memories that rushed back along with it.

"Did you mean that part about there being two sides to the story?" Dorian asked covertly while everyone's attention was diverted.

He swallowed the whiskey, letting it burn a path down to his empty stomach. "Just between us: no," he admitted, staring into the bottomless depths of the sea, "but I also know what it's like to be the guy who had to cut loose… even if it broke his heart to go through with it."

**~oOo~**

Upon Varric's departure several days prior, Cassandra made her way through the fortress to fulfill her duties as per the norm. Skyhold was a great deal quieter without him, and less contentious, given who he'd selected to join him on his journey to wherever he was headed. Still, despite the goings-on, there was a keen emptiness from which she had set her mind to distract herself, and off to work she went.

Nearing the armoury, she caught something in her peripheral vision that sent her adrenaline rushing through her: the sight of a sinister creature in a darkened window. She reacted on instinct, believing a demon had materialised within the walls, and drew her sword. Instead, under further consideration, what she had seen was none other than her own reflection glaring back at her, causing a ragged gasp to ring from her throat. Eyes turned her way, and she heard them echo her reaction, skittering away in an attempt to stifle their horror.

No wonder Varric had been reluctant to share what he'd been thinking as he stared at her from his pillow on their last morning together. There was a reason the denizens of Skyhold gave her a wide, terrified berth all morning… Her eyes, once the earthy browns of her mother's the night before, were now a ruby red, their faint lyrium-glow something she was wholly unable to control, and her pallor was either ghostlier or her veins were closer to the surface than ever, more prominent as they rooted like black lotus over her bared neck and face. Turning her face away, she entered the armoury and shakily grabbed up the nearest helmet to obscure her features from view. If anything, she could thank the Maker she wasn't glowing like she had in Orlais… At least the frost runes embedded in her armour were good for something.

Midday was fast approaching, and Cassandra had passed the time by isolating herself from concerned eyes, deciding to straighten Varric's room instead. It was only a small favour in the grand scheme of things, but since he hadn't left her a key to lock up, the chamber remained unsecured, putting his sensitive documents and belongings at risk. There wasn't much to do, either, most of the job spent inventing methods of stowing away clutter. She located an unused dresser and moved it singlehandedly to store his garments and various accessories, assigning drawers for specific articles of clothing. The unopened packages containing Maker-knew-what (though she highly suspected illegal contraband, knowing him) easily slid beneath the bed after she'd cleared it of cobwebs and dust, and that more than anything so far had done wonders. Lastly, she made a trip to her quarters and emptied her war chest to the false bottom for which she'd never found a use and pulled it free, after which she promptly walked back and did the same to his chest, where she hid the letters stacked on the sideboard. Piling alternate sets of leather armour and metal components inside to disguise the new hiding place, she closed the lid and stole a final glance at the room in satisfaction, straightening the bedclothes just right before turning to leave.

Although not possessing much of an appetite, she forced down a small bowl of porridge to provide herself with a source of slow-burning energy for the day ahead and remembered to stop upstairs to Sera's room for the notes Varric had mentioned he'd left behind. Thumbing through the parchments to check that the elf had not left her crass marks on the research, the Seeker crossed the courtyard and climbed the outer staircase.

As she neared the bottom of the pile, she couldn't fight the shudder that shook her at the scrawled handwriting there, which devolved into what looked like madness, detailing the observable properties of the red lyrium now residing in her body. This woman, this dwarf who had scratched her quill over these papers, knew damn-well that red lyrium was deadly, and she had still chosen to hire the Carta to dose her with a lethal amount. _No_ , she reminded herself, _Bianca had only meant for them to kill me, not poison me._

As if _that_ was somehow better?

Scoffing gutturally at the back of her throat, she didn't want to dwell of that sick notion now. Rolling the parchments and holding them in a loose fist, she ignored the prying eyes of pompous nobility as she crossed the floors of the Main Hall, sparing only a glance at the hearth fire to her right, the chair he usually occupied empty and solemn, another cold testament to his glaring absence.

Bent on returning Bianca's research to Dagna, Cassandra opened the door by the throne and walked directly into the Skyhold's Undercroft, removing her helmet and nodding her greetings to Harrit the Blacksmith… before he went ashen and turned away, pretending to look for a hammer he'd misplaced. Casting her eyes low, she took careful steps and looked up only as much as would be necessary to speak to the dwarven arcanist.

But she would have to wait her turn.

"Well, I didn't get a chance to really scratch the surface on Samson," she was explaining to the Inquisitor. "He wasn't the most cooperative human I've ever worked with. Even Harrit has his moments, but not as many as that guy. He was a red lyrium-infused masterclass in how to be a sourpuss." Shrugging, she added as an afterthought, "I mean, I guess I can't blame him. He was pretty broken… It was very sad, what happened to him. I mean, not just the being dead part, but… You know."

Biting her tongue, Cassandra took a few steps back, preferring to keep her distance from the topic of Samson as much as possible.

"Were you able to learn anything new at all?" Lavellan asked, sounding rather beaten and hollow.

"Well, I _did_ wring out a rune or two," she offered, waving a hand toward her workbench.

Following her gesture, Cassandra spotted the pair of crimson runes lying on the steel table, wondering how in the Maker's name Dagna had harnessed the power of the red lyrium without corrupting herself. How could she be certain the user of such a rune would not come under harm? All the same, the Seeker eyed it like a foreign delicacy on a silverite platter, glancing down to her blade resting in its scabbard in the hopes that one might be embedded in its hilt. Perhaps her own red lyrium could enhance the effects and wield the substance to her benefit…

They had spoken more, but she had missed the rest of the exchange, coming to only as Lavellan turned to face her.

Cassandra gasped in shock. "Inquisitor!"

"Cassandra!" The elf's jaw dropped as she took in her appearance, the Seeker doing likewise. Though she knew her own features were startling to say the least, the Dalish's face was equally as surprising. "A-are you all right?"

"Are _you?"_ Catching herself, the Nevarran shook her head to clear it. "Uh, I'm sorry, Inquisitor, but I didn't expect your… f-face." Well, _that_ wasn't the most delicate way to address the missing blood writing from the Herald's skin. "I mean, not your face, but –"

"It's okay, Cassandra," she reassured her with a shaky wave. "Your reaction isn't exactly atypical to the others I've received."

Still fighting back her shock, the Seeker asked, "…How were you able to… _remove_ your markings?"

The hollowness of Lavellan's voice was echoed in a blank expression, her practiced gaze trained on the Seeker, which took most of her concentration to hold. "I agreed to undergo a spell, and Solas… took it from me," she said simply, her green eyes darkening at that. "He… took quite a bit more, actually."

Remorse filled Cassandra, but she was clueless as to how to express it, the words disappearing from her vernacular. "Uh – I – Oh, I'm sorry, I had not intended to…" Swallowing for a moment, she fought her stammer and tried to focus on a singular thought amongst the myriad of questions swimming through her mind. "We live in… troubled times," she sputtered at last, feeling Lavellan's recent break-up as if it was her own.

"Understatement of the Age," the elf sighed, hugging her elbows over her chest. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her eyes neatly avoiding Cassandra's own, understandably. "I had a long night. And my morning wasn't any better."

"How so?" she wondered, her curiosity piquing. "Has something else occurred?"

Grimacing, the Inquisitor shot her a glance, wary of Cassandra's reaction to whatever she was about to say. "Well, _besides_ Sera threatening to shoot me in the face for drinking from the _Vir'abelesan_ and Kieran going missing through the eluvian in the garden," she mentioned in an offhanded manner, "I… came face to face with Mythal."

The Seeker stared for a moment in silence. Surely, she must have misheard or misunderstood the woman. "It appears you've had quite the morning." Turning her face and giving Lavellan a sidelong glance, she ventured, "Are you certain this was not a dream?"

It took all the elf's strength not to angrily defend herself, her irritation dispelling after a forced, slow sigh. "No, I met her, as in, in the flesh." She paused to reconsider her choice of words. "Sort of. Her spirit apparently lives in Morrigan's mother."

"Morrigan's _mother_ is an elven goddess? But isn't she human?" Although her voice sounded sceptical to her own ears, her heart was racing at an ever-quickening rate.

"Her mother is harbouring the _spirit_ of Mythal," Lavellan clarified, despite the whole idea thoroughly baffling even her, by the looks of it. "Maybe Morrigan can explain it better if you ask her. I'm at a loss for what to think, to be honest with you. My faith in the elven gods was slipping, but then with everything at the temple and the voices of the Well, and now this…? I'm not sure about much, anymore."

To entertain the very notion of the elven pantheon truly existing, despite the claims of the Chantry, was causing an odd crisis of faith within Cassandra. An elven goddess _appeared_ and _spoke_ to the Inquisitor? Why had Andraste not shown Herself to _Her_ followers? Could it be that the elves were right all along? Did the Maker exist _at all?_

"Cassandra," the Inquisitor interrupted her, watching her red eyes dart back and forth as her thoughts raced, "you once asked me if there was room among my gods for one more, and I accepted that it might be possible. I'm a little hurt that the reverse isn't also true for you."

Stunned, the Seeker blinked in quick succession several times, staring at the woman whose face was now laid bare in every sense of the word. "You are right," she realised in an instant. "I did say that to you, back in Haven… Perhaps that is the case, Inquisitor. I meant no disrespect."

That brought the barest of smiles to the elf's lips. "Believe me, I'm having just as hard a time accepting it as you are. Perhaps she was just lying, or perhaps she _is_ Mythal, but not a goddess at all. Still, it's a little on the nose that I'm now under the control of the _same_ goddess my _vallaslin_ once honoured."

Once again, Cassandra was taken aback. "What do you mean, 'under control'? I don't understand."

Her large, elven eyes widened further. "Oh. It's… a long story."

Deeply concerned, she nodded her acceptance. "It appears I have missed much." Taking a step around the Herald, the Seeker held the notes out for Dagna to take, hoping to trade one favour for another in the form of one of the master runes lying on the workbench.

Before she could ask, however, Lavellan spoke again. "Maybe I can explain it to you on the way…"

Alarmed, Cassandra spun on her heel, the idea of possibly seeing action making her muscles flex in anticipation. "Where are we going?"

"Oh, nowhere – not if you think you aren't ready for it," she hurriedly waved a hand. "But I thought I'd ask, since it involves a dragon."

Cocking her head to the side, she crossed her arms and tried to wipe the stern look from her face. She was, as always, ready for anything, and the very notion that anyone would think she wasn't prepared was an insult. "Explain," she muttered, a single brow raised.

And so she did. This "Flemeth," or "Mythal," or whoever Morrigan's mother truly was, had ordered Lavellan to procure the services of a dragon, which guarded a shrine dedicated to the goddess. If she could master it in open combat, it was the Herald's to command against Corypheus. If not, she would die. It was as simple as that, though nothing was ever so straightforward. Due to owing her companions from the last fight with such a beast, Lavellan had already secured The Iron Bull and Sera to join her in taking it down.

"I was going to ask Vivienne to accompany me if you said no," she finished at last. "But I didn't want you to think I'd excluded you because of – well," she gestured toward her friend's form in indication of the obvious lyrium corruption. "I sort of… know what it's like to have something… _living_ inside you, whispering things not from your own mind…" She faltered again, unsure of herself. "Anyway, the offer's there. I can easily tell Vivienne to stay behind. Another wave of nobility arrived after the battle in the Arbor Wilds, and I'm sure she wouldn't mind having Skyhold all to herself to rub elbows with them for a while."

She looked away then in… shame? Is that what her expression conveyed? "And I had hoped you could offer me advice on… how to get over Solas, since you and Varric aren't…"

Inquisitor Lavellan was not normally this beside herself, and Cassandra was at a loss for what to say in response. Though she would have agreed in a heartbeat any other time, something was holding her voice hostage, forcing her to consider her decision, which was noticeably unlike her.

But then she realised what had caused her to think carefully about her decision. _Behave yourself,_ Varric had ordered her just before he had left. His words echoed in her mind along with his smile, and she found herself second-guessing the instinct to pack her things and embark on this mission.

Still, they only meant to _capture_ the dragon, and that sounded far easier than outright slaying it…

"Cassandra?"

She shook the troublesome thoughts from her mind. "Yes? I mean – Yes."

Lavellan eyed the Seeker for a moment to be certain. "So, you're coming with us?"

Cassandra took a deep breath and nodded, her final decision made. "I am, Inquisitor. I'd be glad to accompany you. Let us capture this dragon together."

**~oOo~**

" _Help yourSELF to a SOCK frOm THe BASket… BUT ONLY ONE!"_

Startled at being addressed directly, Cole jerked, the sock he was clutching flinging high over his head. "Oh!" He looked up in the hopes of catching it in time, but his prize was nowhere to be found. Turning in confusion, he spotted the unusually long purple sock lying on the old floorboards – just as the small white bear scooped it up between his teeth and raced off with his new toy in tow. "No, Chauncey, no," Cole pleaded, mild panic in his voice as he hunched over and attempted to chase down the little creature, "please give it back!"

Blackwall shook his head as he turned back toward the table on which an impressive assortment of fine weaponry was displayed, masking an amused smirk beneath his grizzly beard.

" _EvERYthiNG is for SALE…. EEeeEEeExCEPT the reJUVenaTIng oils. Those are for mY mMm-m-M-mm PERsonal usE…"_

The Black Emporium: a shop only for those deemed worthy in the eyes of its immortal proprietor, Xenon the Antiquarian. Varric had accompanied Hawke to the entrance more times than he could recall and had heard tales of the items on offer, along with the mysterious, skeletal creature who could barely be called a man sitting motionless upon a giant throne, but had never possessed the nerve to see the place for himself, even after the Inquisitor had also received the honour to shop here.

Until today.

The mute urchin who had met them on the doorstep had disappeared for several hours after they arrived, apparently negotiating with his master to secure permission for them to enter. Despite working for the Inquisition, they were not the Inquisitor herself, and as such, the invitation did not extend to the inner circle. Late into the evening, however, he returned with a note, dictated from the owner in the child's nearly illiterate script: _Under my turms for yor entrence, I demand kolateral from EACH MAN! Yoo may submit whateva hi-valu TRINKETS yoo curantlee posess! Gold is use-less unles az paymnt for itums in my collecshun! CHOOZE WISLY! Yor puroozle depends up on it!_

Hero had been the first to settle on an item to use as collateral, handing over his rare, enchanted sword procured in the Frostback Basin. When the boy struggled under the sheer weight of the obsidian blade, he promptly suggested to carry it for the urchin, an offer that was gladly accepted. Sparkler had hesitated at first to give up his own, cupping something in his hands at an angle which made it impossible for Varric to catch a glance, but he eventually relinquished an oddly glowing stone: a Sending Crystal, he explained, used by the ancient elves for long-distance communication, which made Solas' pointed ears perk up a bit at its mention. Having little of value himself, Chuckles took a knee and pulled the pair of long leather thongs over his head, allowing the child to take his jawbone necklace. Scowling at the old thing, the little boy had stiffened as Solas then leaned in to whisper to him in private, and his little eyes rounded like saucer plates as the elf finished and moved to stand again. Having no ability to speak, the child had simply nodded emphatically, holding the seemingly worthless necklace by the twin thongs as if the wolf bone was hazardous to his very being.

"I-I don't have anything," the Kid had stammered, turning his palms to show empty hands. "But I'm not a man… N-Not really…" Once it had been divulged to the urchin that Cole was in fact a Spirit of Compassion in human form, the child had scribbled on the note and handed it to Varric. It read simply: _The spirit ov compashun kan be hiz own kolateral. Yooz guyz just havta by somting to get him bak._ Wincing at the grim bargain proposed, they agreed to the terms laid out, promising Cole that they wouldn't abandon him, even if it meant buying the most expensive item in the shop.

When it came time for Varric to choose, he was unsure of what to surrender. His cocking ring necklace was gold, his earrings were gold, even his rings were gold, and he doubted that they would be accepted…

But then he felt the heavy weight on his back, and his heart dropped to his boots. Closing his eyes, he pressed his lips to a fine line and reminded himself that he was here for Cassandra, and whatever he had to do to look for a cure in there would be worth it. Besides, he would get her back when they were done…

And so, the dwarf had nodded toward his beloved crossbow, presenting it when the little urchin motioned for a closer look. Bianca was gleaming after her wax polish that morning, and the child had been endlessly fascinated by the contraption as Varric showed him various settings and buttons which activated her legs, launched a fierce-looking grappling hook, and ejected the bayonet attached just above her flight groove. This was more than accepted, the child pocketing the Sending Crystal and putting on the jawbone necklace in order to free his arms to take Bianca from his grasp. Although Varric mostly felt uncomfortable letting anyone he didn't know or trust lay hands on his crossbow, he had to admit that the urchin had looked adorable lugging it with pride down the stairs and through the expansive hallway leading to the shop floor. He was only grateful that he'd taken precautions to switch on the safety before doing so.

After all collateral was relinquished and placed under close guard of an imposing golem (Thaddeus Gigantus Crumbum the Third, they were informed), they gave their thanks to Xenon for being gracious enough to allow them entry and promptly split up to search the Emporium.

" _We had a VISitor the other day,"_ Xenon the Antiquarian cut through Varric's musings. _"TURNed out to be a VeNaTORI. We FED him to the MONSter under the flOORboardS… HE made a deLIGHTful CRRRUNCHing noise! AaAhAaHa!"_ His maniacal laughter was unnerving, sending a violent shudder down the dwarf's spine, and his cackling voice crawled over his skin like centipedes meandering up and down his forearms. _"…Are they ALL liKe that?"_

Dorian rounded the throne in the centre of the room and leisurely placed a boot on the first step. The comment plainly aimed at him, Sparkler's grin oozed with unholy levels of charm. "Oh, that they are," he winked at the unmoving, skeletal figure. "Granted, I've not had the distinct pleasure of feeding them to _monsters_ , before, but I've seen what dragons are capable of doing to them. _Quite_ the sickly crunch, I must admit. Like little crackers with chutney… if the chutney was made of preserved intestines, that is."

" _SPlenDID!"_ As Varric turned away and began digging through a barrel of exquisite gems, Xenon continued questioning their personal Tevinter Altus. _"I wONDer if your SHARed ANcesTRY wiTH thOSe intRUSive CRETINS gives YOU the SAme CRRRUNCHineSS. The monSTer HAS been a biT PECKish, latelyyy…"_

"Well, there's only one way to find out," Dorian said, the smirk evident in his voice as he walked away to resume the search, "but I'm sure you'll agree that I'm _far_ too pretty to die."

There was a long pause in their conversation, indicating to Varric that the Antiquarian was either done talking to Sparkler or was currently enjoying whatever he was reading. With that book all but stuck to his face, he felt comfortable settling on the latter explanation.

"Find anything?" Blackwall muttered, their search of the rear area of the shop bringing them within close proximity.

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," Varric mumbled back, the worry line between his brows deepening with each passing hour. "There's plenty of rare arcane goods here to make Cupcake squeal like a stuck nug, but nothing so far. You?"

Hero shook his head, his expression wearied at best. "Nothing I can see that would help out Cassandra," he admitted glumly. "Keep looking, Varric. There's gotta be something in this pile of jun–" Cutting himself short, he glanced over his shoulder at the intimidating proprietor. "Er… Well, we'll find it, whatever 'it' is."

" _HaNDLE the MIRror wiTh CAre… It HAs bEEn knOWN to BITE."_

The merchant prince glanced up to see Cole staring with curiosity at the Mirror of Transformation. "Try not to touch anything, Kid," he warned from across the floor.

"I'm not touching it," he answered distantly, seemingly transfixed on the large golden artefact for the meanwhile.

Dorian approached Varric's flank, a few identical items in tow. "I'm not sure this is entirely helpful, but…" The mage laid the items on a table for their appraisal.

"I'll take whatever you've got, Sparkler," he frowned, picking up one of the stones. "What are these?"

"Well," he rubbed his aching neck in exhaustion, "they're empty master runes. I know that doesn't seem like much to you, but these are unusual to those I'm familiar with. In lament's terms, they have no assigned magic to them. They haven't even been infused with lyrium, as of yet. I'm not quite sure how we might put them to use, but they're some of the most promising items I've come across. Perhaps Dagna knows what to do with them. You _really_ should have brought her along, Varric."

"I thought about it," he admitted, his thumbs tucked through his belt loops, "but she was too busy with Samson's armour. Lavellan thought that it might be important for finding a cure, too." He picked up one of the runes and inspected it closely. "What's so special about these? Wouldn't Cupcake have a chest full of them?"

Solas approached from behind and studied one of the blank runes himself. "Presumably, she would have something similar to manipulate," he added his two coppers, "although master runes in any form are difficult to come across. But these, specifically, are elven in origin and are capable of far more than their dwarven counterparts."

"You know, Solas, I just _knew_ you would correct me if I mentioned that they appeared Tevinter," Dorian all but snorted, bringing forth a gentle smirk from the apostate.

"You can tell all that just by _looking_ at an old rock?" Blackwall asked, twin bushy brows raised in mild astonishment, though his tone was deeply sceptical.

Putting the rune back down, the elf leaned on his staff. "I've seen similar ancient artefacts in my time," he explained with a dismissive shrug. "But even on my vast journeys, such runes were a rare find. To have so many in one location is worthy of note." He turned to Varric then, his brows lowering. "As for my own search, I've uncovered a receipt for a potent elixir," he said, handing a parchment listing several uncommon, even rare ingredients to Varric. "According to the description, this promises to reverse extensive organ damage and accelerate healthy regrowth. Once the red lyrium is successfully removed –"

"Maker willing," Dorian interrupted with a breathless mumble.

Solas nodded to the mage at that. "Indeed. Perhaps I should have said 'if.'" Masking his sombre expression, he continued, "It is likely Cassandra suffers from erosion of her internal organs. In theory, at this late stage in her corruption, too great of harm may have been done for her to survive without a reversal of this calibre. I suggest we purchase the list for the Inquisition's stocks and check for the rarer ingredients while we're here."

"Good find, Chuckles," Varric approved, handing the parchment back to the elf. "Buy it up and check the herb jars for anything useful. Sparkler, how many of these empty runes can we afford?"

The man grinned at that, his moustache twitching with delight. "At _these_ prices? Barely _one_ , but my mother was a first-class haggler. I learned more than enough from watching her work the stalls on market day. Give me five minutes with the man, and I'll show you what highway robbery looks like," he smirked with his eyes, scooping up his treasure trove and approaching the proprietor with a spring in his step.

"Well, this trip is starting to look promising," Blackwall commented under his breath.

"Yeah, it's better than nothing," Varric agreed despite the solid grip around his heart, "but there's just one problem: We found stuff for the before and after parts, but we still haven't figured out the middle." He hung his head, leaning on the table as he turned his back on the shop. "And _I_ haven't found anything useful since we got here."

"Ah, come on," Hero slapped his back in an effort to brighten his spirits. "We wouldn't even _be_ here if it weren't for you knowing where the fuck this old place was."

He shook his head in dismay. "Shit, I don't know, Hero. I just feel like I'm not contributing enough. I got her into this mess, so I should be the one to get her out of it, you know?"

Blackwall pressed his lips to a fine line beneath his thick moustache, the proper words eluding him. "Cheer up, lad," he finally said after a quiet pause. "If it's meant to happen, it'll happen."

"That's what I'm worried about," he muttered to himself. _What if it just isn't_ meant _to happen…?_

" _PRIces are NOT NeGOTiAbLE!"_

"Surely you don't need _all_ of them. Simple supply and demand economics necessitates that prices be lowered when overstocked on an item. You have an entire barrel, and I'm betting you haven't shifted a single one in over a century!"

" _Your demAND for SAid ITEMS kEEPs thEIR prICE hIGH! You HARDly reSEMble my NORmal clienTELE… Just WHAT aRe you PLANning to USe tHEm FOR, AnYwaAay?"_

Varric heard Sparkler emit an exasperated sigh and knew that his supposed skills at bargaining were either exaggerated or of no use with their unique proprietor. Knocking his knuckles against the wooden table for luck, he pushed himself off and strode over to stand beside his companion to lend a hand. "We need them for a friend," he explained, not quite prepared enough to look up at Xenon. "She's been corrupted by red lyrium and these might be useful to her. We won't know until we try, but it's worth a shot. And you'd be doing us a favour if you knocked a zero or two off those price tags."

Another long pause from the immovable statue. There wasn't the hint of a twitch that Varric could use to gauge his success or failure, and he imagined playing cards with this old bastard would have him sweating buckets – mainly because Xenon would probably demand an appendage as payment if he lost.

" _I MAY be WILLinnnNNg to NEGOTiate,"_ Xenon hissed with all the unseen glee of steepled fingers and wicked grins, sending a chill through Blackwall as the man inspected a glowing crystal far off to their right. _"JUSsssST for YOU, I shALL SELL tHE rUNes at HALF pRRRiCE… IF you aGRee to doNATE yOUr fRIEND's pETriFIED reMAins to my mm-M-mMMm COLLEction…"_

Varric's blood ran cold.

" _AFTer she's DEAD, of cOURse!"_ Xenon's tittering laughter was callous, though expecting an immortal to care an inch for the dead and dying was about as ridiculous as his morbid request.

"Red lyrium is extremely dangerous and volatile." Solas moved to stand next to Dorian, an arch in his brow as he attempted to reason with the mutated, skeletal figure. "Even if you managed to transport her corpse in one piece, you're asking for more trouble than the endeavour is truly worth. She would be a bomb in the midst of priceless treasures, ready to destroy all you have amassed in a heartbeat."

" _LeAVe THAT to ME…"_ was all Xenon said in response to the elf's warning.

Solas shot Varric a knowing look, leaving the matter up to him. With a heavy sigh, the dwarf nodded. "Fine. If she doesn't survive, she's yours. Just sell us the damned runes."

" _Varric,"_ Dorian whispered hurriedly, turning to him.

"Don't, Sparkler," he interrupted, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat as the bargain settled uncomfortably in the pit of his gut. "Let's just make sure we don't have to go through with it. Besides, if she gets that far, we can't do anything for her, anyway."

He could see the pulse racing in the bronze column of his friend's neck. "As you wish, poor sod," he resigned, turning to address Xenon again. "Any ideas on how we might go about _separating_ red lyrium from living flesh?"

" _HA! You REALLY sHOUld hAve ASKed THAT beFORE striKING a DEAL to hANd hER to ME! AhHAAhA! …You WEnt with THAT?!"_

"What?" He hadn't been addressing them with that last remark. It made no sense in this context –

"Look, Blackwall! I did it!"

The men turned as one to face Cole when he glided up to them. And they collectively froze.

"Now I have a beard, too!"

Indeed he did. Coarse, thick braids hung from the boy's chin, attached to a massive mustache and enough hair to cover the entirety of Solas' shining scalp twice over.

"Maker's _Balls_ ," Hero finally managed through the shock, "that's the most unnatural thing I've ever seen."

"Cole, what in the Bride's holy name have you done to yourself?!" Dorian was at the spirit's side in an instant, trying to tug the hair off as if it was only held in place by a string.

"It's not a mask," Cole grinned – or at least Varric _assumed_ he was grinning. It was hard to tell beneath all that chaos.

"No, it's _hideous!_ You march right up to that mirror and tell it to fix what it did to you!" He turned Cole by the shoulders and led him back to the scene of the crime.

"B-but Dorian –"

"Cole, do you remember when you asked whether I thought you were handsome?"

"Yes."

"Well, what am I thinking _now?_ "

The Kid paused for a moment to read his friend. "Oh. This doesn't help, does it?"

The Altus shook his head emphatically. "Stick to the hats, and don't over-complicate your style; it doesn't suit you. It hardly suits Blackwall."

Nodding, Cole allowed himself to be led back to the Mirror of Transformation. "You're right. I want it to help, not hurt."

"Then let's make a few changes. Solas, if you would?" Dorian called over his shoulder. Sure enough, the elven mage wiped the grin from his face and stepped over to assist, not once remarking on the fact that the Tevinter was literally calling for the aid of a man whose taste he consistently berated whenever opportunity sprouted its ugly head.

Blackwall gave his dwarven friend a nudge of comradery. "Come on, lad," he beckoned Varric to follow, "let's keep looking."

**~oOo~**

Despite turning the place upside-down, they hadn't found much else in the Black Emporium.

The team barely had enough change left over to pay the ferryman to take them back across the Waking Sea the following morning, where the far-off walls of his hometown had faded into the mist over the expansive waters. The journey was less jostling than before, but his stomach had been just as, if not more upset by the anxiety-inducing notion that all he had found for Cassandra was a dusty old book of poetry sitting on a shelf in the upper library. He had known she would adore it, even devour it in one sitting if she had the chance, but he certainly would have appreciated something in the way of an extraction tool…

Cole, once again mercifully bare-chinned, had sat with him in silence to quell his worried mind as he cradled Bianca on his lap, while their other three companions had quietly attempted to work through their differences not three metres from the sole of his boot. Although Solas had managed a smile or two along this personal quest of Varric's, there was a great sadness in everything he did, as if Blackwall's old, former burdens had transferred from the human's broad shoulders to the elf's and increased tenfold. The way Chuckles conducted himself, one might think the Inquisitor was the one to end their relationship, but since that wasn't the case, his pain spoke of something else, veiled beneath thick layers of quiet enthusiasm and scholarly intrigue. Varric didn't know if he was right, or if he was alone in thinking it, but a familiar tug in his gut told him that all was not as it seemed. And whatever was troubling that odd elf… Well, he just hoped Solas found a way to live with whatever was eating him alive. And by the end of their voyage, they appeared to have left their internal squabbles by the wayside, coming if not to an understanding, then to a place of tentative peace with one another.

Once they had reached the shore and passed through the nearest town, though, the journey seemed less oppressive. They had made good time, and so long as time itself was still on their side, there was hope lying somewhere on the other end. They had their potions, runes, recipes, and books, and now it was time to go home to present their purchases for the more brilliant minds of Skyhold to sort through. Even the climb up the mountains wasn't as bad as he thought it might be, passing so fast that they shaved a day off their estimated time of arrival.

How long had they been away? Two weeks? Three? Staring at the ramparts cresting over the mountainside in the distance, it easily felt like they'd left only yesterday, and Varric's heart couldn't help but soar at the familiar sight. Soon, he would be hard at work in the Undercroft with Cupcake, ready to help her enchant anything she needed. Soon, they would figure a way out of this mess. Soon, Cassandra would be free of all this horrible shit, and the first thing he wanted to do once she was cured was to curl up and read this crusty old book to her, falling asleep together long into the night, safe at last in the knowledge that she would never suffer another surge again.

He had to believe it. _Had to_. Varric refused to be brought down from the hope he had just been blessed with, cradling the bubble from sharp truths that might jab out from the depths of his mind to pop it. Without realising it, he'd set the pace to a relative sprint, and despite his disadvantages in height and stature, he was a good few yards ahead of them when he reached the gatehouse over the stone bridge leading to the iron gates of Skyhold.

No blaring horns announcing their arrival, but that was to be expected. They only went to those lengths for the Inquisitor, and she wasn't with them… But come to think of it, the scouts along the ramparts hadn't shouted down to him for identification, nor to their Commander for permission. True, the two men, the spirit, the elf and the dwarf were fairly recognisable by now, but that alone was unusual enough to give Varric pause. And the gates rose slowly, allowing for Hero, Sparkler, Chuckles, and the Kid to catch up with him, the men walking through together, caution in their every step.

"Is anyone else getting a bad feeling right about now, or am I just being paranoid?" Blackwall asked as they passed over the oil grate and into the courtyard.

Dorian took one look around and swallowed hard. "No," he responded, his velvety voice low and guarded, "you're not alone in that… This feels rather strange."

"Shit, they're back," a muffled voice sounded behind them, causing them to turn toward the barn.

Out of the shadows walked Sera, followed closely by Bull, who was at Dorian's side in three long strides, and the qunari said nothing as he lifted the mage in a silent bear hug. "Oh, thank fuck... We've been waiting, _kadan_ ," he muttered gruffly into the man's shoulder, burying his face there for a long while and only raising the tension felt in the new arrivals.

"What's going on?" Blackwall frowned, looking down at the elf critically. "Wait… Sera, have you been crying?"

" _No_ ," she suddenly wiped at her face, "jus' tired, is all. Been freezin' my arse off sittin' out 'ere for you lot."

"Has something happened to the Inquisitor?" Solas couldn't help but leap in, his narrowed eyes now filled with unsuppressed panic.

As he spoke, Lavellan emerged from beyond the barn door, wiping her tear tracks on her sleeve. When she looked up at the dread in his voice, her eyes bloodshot from hours of shed tears, instinct overcame them both. In a moment's loss of all reservations, she had raced into his arms, her shoulders racking as she sobbed, tears spilling over his travel vestments. _"Hamin,_ Lavellan _,"_ he soothed her out of habit, leading her across the lower courtyard toward the stairs. "Come, tell me everything…"

Varric turned from this scene to find Bull carting a stunned and confused Dorian away as well, separating him from Sparkler's bag of runes. But he hardly worried about that, now. A quick headcount did more to his guts than a direct hit from a battlehammer ever could.

"Buttercup," he tensed, gripping her shawl as he fought to breathe. Instantly, she grabbed him by the collar of his coat and struggled to keep him upright, but his weight was too much for her, Blackwall diving forward to help her steady him.

"Oh, no… She dreams the old dreams," Cole trembled in place, cradling his elbows as he wandered off in a seemingly random direction. "I-I-I… have to go." And at that, the Kid disappeared in a dark cloud, leaving nothing but more confusion in his wake.

"Bring 'im in by the fire," Sera said to the warrior, scratching uncomfortably at her ear as she let go of the dwarf.

Hero did as she asked, the elf pacing the length of the dim fire again and again. "Shit, shit, _shit_ ," she muttered frantically. "I can't _believe_ they left _me_ to do it…"

Once the two had followed her inside, she threw up her hands and bit her lip, scrunching up her nose as she thought. " _Right,"_ the elf tried to start, but her jaw hung low as she tried to force the words past her throat. "Uh, so…"

"What's wrong, Sera?" Blackwall prompted her, waving a hand. "Get on with it, or you'll give us old bastards a heart attack!"

"Well, s'not gonna get any better once I tell ya, is it?!"

"Spit it out, Buttercup," Varric barked, the horrors of his imagination fraying the rope of his patience to a mere thread. "Just tell me it's not the Seeker. Andraste's ass, please don't say that."

She nodded firmly, took a deep breath, and lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the straw by the fireside. "Okay, listen, right," she sighed, holding her head in her hands, "you're gonna need to sit yer arses down, because you're not gonna like this one bit, yeah?"

Varric dropped, falling on his backside with a hand over his chest hair as if physically trying to restrain his racing heart, Hero bending low in a squatting position at his side. "Just start from the beginning," the warrior eased her into it. "Don't just blurt it out; break it gently."

Running a hand through her choppy hair, she looked down then and raised a finger just in time to catch the tear that had begun pooling in her eye. "…It wasn't nobody's fault, yeah…? It was an accident – wasn't meant to go tits up, like…"

Her eyes darted up at them, as if realising she'd started in the wrong place. "…Anyway, so we were out on a stupid mission…"

**~oOo~**

This. Was. So. _Elfy._

All this way for a smelly old clearing with a dumb old statue for a stupid elfy god. Or goddess, or whatever – it didn't matter either way; this _Mythal_ person or other _didn't exist_. So what if Inky said she talked to some old bitch who _claimed_ to be one of those elven panther-thingies? This dragon had better be real, or she was going have several words with Lavellan, all of them likely regrettable.

Getting here was weird, too. There was Inky, of course, and she was all sorts of out of it from the Well of Dead Elves and the creepy voices she was talking to when she didn't think she was saying anything aloud. Then there was Cassandra, and… speaking of _creepy_ , she was worse than when they came back from Val Royeaux. She would fall into fits that lasted a couple of minutes, and then her necklace would be all glowy, and _then_ she'd be right as rain like nothing had even happened. Her skin was like an opal – not really pale and white, but if she turned certain ways, there were splotches of yellow, blue, green, and even purple sometimes under it all. And the lines on Cass' face were darker than ever. They only used to be a bit blackish, and there were only a few of them at first, but now her face was like a map of the deep roads, all dark and winding and… well… _blight-y_. Did she know her eyes were like… _demon eyes,_ now?Sera shuddered at the comparison.

At least Bull was there to balance out the depressing shite. He was a fucking breath of fresh air when set against the sickly girls in the corner, talking about their hang-ups on idiot men leaving them in the cold for shady reasons. At least they were getting in on some of that girl bonding shite she'd recommended, but it was more fun to talk to Bull about dragons and mayhem, and she was glad that he'd come along, too. They were long overdue for a good arse-kicking, and to be honest, she couldn't wait to capture this dragon to fight on their side against Corypheus (yeah, she always said his name wrong even though she knew perfectly well what it was, but that ugly horse face didn't deserve to have his name said right. _Ever_. And she delighted in denying him the pleasure of being properly recognised.).

So, there they were, standing in a giant enclosure next to a broken stone statue covered in thick vines and dirt. It looked _well_ old, fair enough, like no one had been there in hundreds of years or more, but that didn't mean Sera was going to suddenly start tattooing her face, or smoking elfroot, or riding halla through the woods, or anything stupid like that. Still, being near that weird, winged statue made her uncomfortable, and it was hard to explain just why. Anyway, she was better off _not_ thinking about it too much.

"There it is," Lavellan said as they approached the steps, eyeing it up like it was more than just a shapely bit of stone. "This is all that's left of the altar… _'We few who travel far, call to me and I will come without mercy and without fear'_ …"

Oh, blah blah blah! Now she was translating Elvish with a little help from her brain priests. Sera stopped listening and scratched behind her pointed ear, keen to forget the past rubbish and get on with the present. Weren't they here for a dragon? Now Cassandra was talking away, but she paid them no attention.

"So, Sera," Bull nudged her quietly, keeping his eye trained on the far end of the clearing, "this Mythal shit. Crazy, uh?"

She immediately pulled a face. "Not talkin' about it."

He lurched with silent laughter, turning to throw her a sidelong glance. "Really? _That's_ what's off limits?"

Bull had a point, she admitted begrudgingly. They'd talked the big shit about Adamant and all the demons there, about Halamshiral and its big people stepping all over little people crap, and other such things that either creeped them out or pissed them off in equal measure. But she drew the line at buying into this "Dalishness," offering her own theory instead. "No, it's just simple. Demons and rubbish. Simple."

And she left it at that, Bull thankfully prying no further.

"I'm here, Flemeth, just as you told me," Lavellan called out, her voice echoing through the enclosure. "If I must master a dragon to fight Corypheus, then send it!" Who was she even yelling at, anyway? This was a bunch of bollocks and –

A dragon's cry rang out all around them.

"Andraste's flaming tits," she muttered breathlessly, drawing her bow with a disbelieving hand.

" _Yes!"_ Iron Bull hissed out his deep pleasure, massive axe gripped in his equally gigantic fists.

Cassandra stormed forward, her shield out in front of her as she prepared to do battle. The beating of expansive, leathery wings cut the air like thunder through the clear blue sky. "Stand ready!" she roared to them. She was anxious to fight, and Sera couldn't help but grin. Her Cassy-Wassy was _back_.

It flew in over the boughs of the trees, landing at the far end hard enough to quake the ground beneath their feet. When it roared their way, Sera thought her eardrums would shake until they split in half, and adrenaline flooded her brain, giving her a high like no other.

The hunt was afoot. _Bitches_.

There was no strategy, no endgame, no thought to what Sera did when the warriors charged and she freed her arrows. Tunnel vision took over, along with a skill naturally born to her. _One, two, three at a time, flip to dodge, stick tongue out, squint an eye, laugh, pull the bowstring back, bend the limbs, release the chaos between Bull's horns above his skull just to make him flinch, laugh again._

Sera danced out of range of Inky's magical barriers, not wanting a ward for herself and letting her cast it over the warriors battering the dragon face to tail, instead. Why bother with all that hocus pocus rubbish when nothing could beat a good bow at her side? Skipping out of the way, she dodged the column of fire with inches to spare, mindful to shake up and fling a jar of angry bees toward the open maw of the beast. It hated that move, stamping furiously at the shattered glass and stinging insects, Bull and Cassandra backing up to avoid being summarily trampled like piles of shit in the middle of the Imperial Highway.

The dragon was putting up a fight, for sure. It would not be taken down so easily, but the same could be said for Cassandra. High above the chaos around them, she could still be heard growling, taunting, aggressively doing all in her power to attract the beast's ire. To be frank, the woman was awe-inspiring. Despite everything she was facing physically and personally, she fought harder and braver than Sera had ever witnessed. Her blade and shield were an extension of herself as always, but there was more to it than that, this time… And Sera suddenly wondered whether that was a good sign.

Then it did that thing that all dragons do when they're desperate, flapping its wings and causing a whirlwind to draw ranged enemies closer – ranged enemies like Lavellan and Sera. She hit the ground, holding firm to a tuft of elfroot, but the plant was too weak to bear her weight and she uprooted it, the winds dragging her through soil and grass until she lay face-up, staring at the creature's open jaws. Sera heard the dragon take in a deep, rumbling breath, and knowing she was about to be blasted by white-hot fire, she drew an arrow from her quiver, knocked it against the grip, pulled the bowstring back as tightly as it would go, and fired, her arrow lodging in the exposed gums between two fangs as big as her head.

It shrieked in pain, but exhaled a fiery breath all the same. Luckily, she had rolled to the left, but not soon enough, and as she tried to scramble out of the way, she felt the flames licking the back of her neck.

" _Sera!"_ Inky screamed, targeting the area in a blizzard which soon put out the flames, sparing her hair. She could smell her own cooked flesh and gagged aloud. Badly burned and now nearly frostbitten, she got to her feet and rushed out of range again, somewhat regretting her decision not to have a ward placed on her.

The dragon aimed at Quizzy with its next breath, and Lavellan dove forward just as the blast struck the ground where she had previously been standing. Still stunned, another force within Sera took over entirely, her eyes reflecting the heat of the flames as she struck the horned creature again and again. Annoyed, it swung a massive clawed foot, catching Cassandra squarely in the chest, and she flew through the air, her sword slipping from her grip. She hit the ground where the patch of grass was still ablaze and caught fire, her howl of pain agonising to Sera's ears.

Riled, Bull swung his battleaxe over his head in a spiralling move and the dragon raised from the ground to avoid the razor edge, flying to the other end of the arena. He followed it in an impossible sprint, and while the two went head-to-head, Sera bolted for the Seeker.

"Put it out, _put it out,_ " she heard herself shout, her boots stamping out the flames nearest their fallen friend. Inky raced over to assist, casting a base-level frost spell to douse the flames currently engulfing Cassandra, but she was down for the count.

"Go back," Sera shoved Lavellan aside, knowing her ice magic was their best bet against the dragon. "I'll get 'er up!"

Now it was just Bull and the Inquisitor against the beast while Sera knelt down to slap the Seeker back to life. "Wakey _wakey_ ," she muttered breathlessly, her voice shaking. She didn't like seeing someone so strong passed out like this, especially one who was meant to stand between her and danger. "Come _on_ , Cass, s'not the place for a snooze!" She was burned far worse than Sera, but eventually she coughed and moved her arms, relieving the elf enough to let Cassandra get her bearings as she raced back into the battle.

The world stood still as they assaulted the dragon, and that only highlighted the fact that the Seeker did not rejoin them as quickly as Sera had thought she would. But there was no time for worrying with the fight still going strong.

And then, out of nowhere, the dragon simply stopped.

Everything that Sera expected to happen next had turned on its head. It sidled to a back corner and waited, the thrumming of its enormous throat still low and growl-like, but calmer. Surprised, Bull backed away to Sera's position, his eye wide with fascination. _So, this is the part where it_ pretends _to be on our side and waits for Inky to get close enough so it can bite her pretty elfy head off, right?_ she wondered suspiciously. She didn't trust this person claiming to be a god any more than she trusted people with less pompous titles.

As Lavellan walked toward the dragon, Sera lurched forward to act as backup in case things went wrong, but Bull held her firmly by the shoulder, halting her steps. Sensing this, the Inquisitor turned and held out her hand to keep them back, and Sera begrudgingly obeyed, walking out of the dragon's direct line of fire just in case, her bow hanging at her side as she glared. Despite her reservations, she had to admit that she was as giddy as she was nervous, staring transfixed at the display. It roared at Lavellan – _wow, listen to that! –_ and she just _stared back_ at it, like this was an everyday thing or something.

Then there was a spirit-like bluey glow all around her, flowing from her and to the dragon. _That_ _Well shite,_ Sera shuddered in disgust. As if it wasn't weird enough for Inky to have all that magic before, what with being a mage and bearing Andraste's mark and whatnot, now she had this… _other thing._ It didn't sit right with her, watching this all play out, but there was nothing she could do about it besides make sure the magic didn't turn on her. Or kill her. Maker, people really shouldn't be drinking things that had the power to change them – unless it was alcohol.

Well, whatever _that_ was, at least it worked, and the dragon just up and walked away, taking off and flying into the distance.

"Wait, did it work?" Sera asked directly, voicing her confusion.

"Boss," Bull called to her as she walked toward them, "why did it fly off like that? Is it coming back?"

She heaved a heavy, grateful sigh. "It will come when I summon it. _Once_. That's enough to fight Corypheus, however. I have my dragon," she managed a smile.

"Great stuff!" Sera grinned with a giggle. "I can't _wait_ to show Corifanny what-for when we…"

Her mind came back to her suddenly. _Cassandra._

Her blue eyes darted over the clearing, locating the spot where Sera had left her to recover. She wasn't there, but was now a few yards away from the scorched circle, and she had dragged herself far enough that she had at least been able to retrieve her sword. Still on her knees, she shook visibly as she tried to push herself up. _"Blessed are the… blessed are…"_ She was trying to pray, that much was obvious, but she was definitely struggling to recall the verse.

Lavellan was the first to race to Cassandra's aid, a potion in hand as she bent low to hook her arms under her to help her up. But when Inky gasped and covered her mouth, stepping back in horror, Sera and Bull traded heightened expressions of fear and rushed over to find out what was wrong.

They didn't get far before the Nevarran spun around, her sword in hand and deathly close to Quizzy's throat. Amazingly, the elf had backed away just in time to avoid having her head separated from her body. Cassandra was facing them, malice, sorrow, and sheer agony in her blazing red eyes…

And now sporting a glistening shard of red lyrium, which had pierced up through her shoulder just above her collarbone.

"Holy shit!" Bull shielded himself with an arm, the heat radiating off the warrior in front of them. "The hell happened to you?!"

" _Cassandra?"_ Sera heard the strains of her voice cry out hopelessly. "W-what –?"

Clarity flashed before the warrior's eyes, her own pleas hungering and desperate. _"…Defend yourselves,"_ she reached them through the lyrium haze. _"…Kill me if you must… Maker, I cannot hold it!"_

At that, she lunged forward unbearably fast and swung hard, her body and its actions beyond her control. The edge of her blade was too close for comfort, and on pure impulse, Sera gasped and held her hands out in front of her to defend herself as she stepped back, forgetting that she was still holding her bow. The sword sliced through the bowstring with a tight snap, effectively disarming her in an instant.

"Cassandra, that's enough!" Lavellan attempted to dispel whatever was affecting the Seeker, but all it seemed to do was attract her attention. "There's no need for us to kill you! Stand down!"

But she couldn't hear them.

Utterly confused, Iron Bull stayed her sword on the next swing with the haft of his battleaxe, instantly volunteering to hold her off. "I _got_ this," he grunted to the elves, their weapons crossed as the woman glowered at him, hatred in her eyes. He'd fought her for countless hours in the sparring ring not long ago; he could hold her off until they could think of a plan.

Sera was still dumbfounded when Lavellan grabbed her by the forearm and yanked her back, but she couldn't break her stare from the horror Cassandra was becoming. " _Sera_ ," she shook her by the shoulders, several attempts at reaching her apparently having failed miserably.

Her mind was racing, trying to work out the puzzle of why this was happening. " _Freeze 'er_ ," Sera sputtered on instinct, surprising even herself.

Inky didn't hesitate. In a heartbeat, she turned and waved her arms, drawing mana around her to encase Cassandra in glacial ice. Bull swung his horns to wait for orders. They only had seconds before the heat of the red lyrium thawed her.

Her time with Dagna in Val Royeaux flooded back, and as the memories flashed before her eyes, seemingly random phrases spilled from her throat. "She was on fire! Fire pisses it right off! Frost runes aren't gonna cut it, but she's got that amulet thingy –!" Sera paused to whip her head around just as Cassandra unfroze, noticing at last what had gone horribly wrong.

A broken gold chain hung from her neck over her armour… and nothing else.

" _Shit!_ Her _amulet_ ," she cried in realisation, pointing needlessly. "It's off, look! She lost it!"

" _Help me,"_ Cassandra wheezed past the pain as the shard grew another inch in length, unable to stop her sword from swinging once again for Bull's exposed chest.

He went on the offensive to push her back, drawing her away to a safe distance. "For fuck's sake, _figure something out and fast!"_

Sera bolted like a shot back to the singed turf and fell on hands and knees, stirring her fingers through ash and dirt to search for the lost pendant. But there was no trace of the Holy Symbol of Andraste to be found. She hadn't lost it here.

 _The dragon._ It had struck her with its massive claws and sent her careening through the air during the battle. She'd lost her sword that way; maybe a chain link had broken on impact, too.

Inky had been on the same wavelength, running back to the place where Cassandra had been dealt the blow. Though she stirred the grass far and wide, there was no sign of it, yet. Listening to the clash of metal and grunts of exertion from her friends, Sera jumped to her feet and used her broken bow to slap through the tall grass, her heart in her throat. Cassandra had been right along this route before she had landed in the flames. It _had_ to be somewhere around here.

Lavellan did the same stirring motion with her staff, lighting a flame in her other palm in the hopes of catching a glimmer of metal –

" _There!"_ Sera didn't stop to point out the sheen of light to her left before diving for the amulet. The bright, golden sun in her grasp, she turned instantly toward the qunari. _"Bull! Catch!"_ She flung the pendant like an arrow from her bow, and it spun with precision on a direct path toward him.

The qunari heard her call over the struggle and turned his head, spotting the small sun in mid-flight. As he raised a massive arm to catch it, though, Cassandra cleaved her sword down into his unarmed shoulder, bringing forth a frustrated roar from Bull. He didn't waver, luckily, and with the amulet now in his grasp, he threw his axe aside and charged the Seeker, tackling her bodily to the ground. Without sparing another second, he slammed the golden pendant down on her neck and kept it pinned with his fingers curled around her throat, knowing full well that he might choke her before it had a chance to take effect.

Cassandra sunk her teeth deep into Bull's forearm just as Lavellan and Sera reached to assist, the Inquisitor prising her snarling mouth from his flesh and pinning her forehead down to the ground while Sera did her best to restrain her strong arms from punching out at them. It took all of them just to hold her still.

"Shh, shh," they all instinctively shushed the warrior, silently praying to every god ever conceived for intervention. "It's all right, Cassandra," Lavellan patted her hair gently, avoiding the angry red shard protruding near the Seeker's ear. She was blazing hot to the touch, but no one moved to let her go, the terror shared for their friend outweighing their collective fear of the lyrium.

"Is it workin'?!" Sera dared to ask, staring at Bull's hand buried around her neck. "Andraste's fuckin' _tits_ , s'not _workin'_ , izzit?!"

After a long moment, Cassandra ceased her struggling beneath them, falling into unconsciousness, and they glanced at one another in shock. The red lyrium shard didn't shrink away, but she felt less like burning coals now, and Bull reluctantly cupped his palm to check the amulet.

It was glowing at last. _Thank the bloody Maker._

Bull moved off her, shifting the amulet to rest on the hollow of her neck. "Nice work," he fell back, catching his second wind. "She's still breathing. 'Least I didn't choke her to death."

"Thank you, Bull," Lavellan said gratefully, her own breaths ragged as she trembled. The Inquisitor was in shock.

Thinking on her feet, Sera reached for her bow and unwound the longer half of the bowstring from the notch, bringing it over and threading the jump ring on the golden sun through, mindful not to remove it from her body as she tied the string expertly, securing it to Cassandra once more and pocketing the long gold chain for repair at a later date.

Trembling herself, Sera found herself unable to let go of Cassandra's limp arm. It was possible Sera had lapsed into a state of shock, too, her muscles tensed and drained all at once as her mind emptied of everything but the memory of pure hatred burning in the Seeker's red, glowing eyes.

It had all happened so fast. Was she going to come back from this? Were _any of them_ going to?

There was only one way to find out.

"We have to get 'er back."

**~oOo~**

As much as was feasible for him, Solas took the news Lavellan chokingly divulged in stride. He remained utterly silent as she revealed possibly the worst blow the Inquisition had suffered post-Haven, leaning motionless against his desk in the rotunda whilst solemnly processing the implications of Cassandra's current condition. Corrupted, comatose, condemned… Although she had resisted longer than most, the dark power within her had at last taken hold once opportunity struck. How woefully luckless that the chain should have snapped in that moment, the flames offering fertile grounds for the crystals to spread…

Not only was it extremely fortuitous that The Iron Bull had been present to hold off the Right Hand of the Divine through the violent takeover of her faculties, but that he was also fit to carry her for the majority of the way back to Skyhold. Indeed, his presence there had proven not only advantageous, but quite necessary. However, Solas bit his tongue when it came to pointing out that perhaps Lavellan's decision to take the Seeker into danger with full knowledge of her precarious health was unwise at best, and downright reckless at worst. She did not need the reminder, much less should he be the one to criticise her judgment, given the state of their personal relationship… Such as it was.

"Don't you have anything to say…?"

He fought the impulse to glance up at her newly-bared face, the face he had cleansed of ancient markings carved out of naivety and ignorance, the face belonging to one for which he still longed, yet could not acknowledge. Solas closed his eyes in sorrow and bowed his head, a long finger running along his chin as he considered his words carefully. _"Ir abelas, …da'len,"_ he whispered, his spirit sinking upon knowing that he had avoided the true endearment etched upon his heart. "I grieve for all this entails for the Inquisition, for you, and especially for Cassandra…"

She was standing at a fair distance from him, reflecting the expanse that had opened between them after their disastrous getaway nearly a month ago. Whatever emotions that had been exposed on his arrival were merely temporary, and gratefully so, for the reestablishment of such connections would signal a betrayal of every reason he had for walking away in the first place. As the silence intensified, tensions began to grow, and he assumed that he had either said the wrong thing or not enough.

Solas straightened with a small sigh and lowered his hands to his sides, walking toward his sideboard where a number of research tomes were set up on display. He reached out, his arm pausing with hesitation slightly before selecting the thick publication containing a secret he had kept for this exact eventuality.

"What are you doing?" Lavellan questioned him, sharp bristles in her tone. "Are you _actually_ reading right now? Are you _done_ with this apparently boring conversation or…?"

Her progressively more affronted tirade trailed off as he turned around, a folded leaf of parchment in his hand. Slowly, he unfolded it and took silent steps back to his desk, standing before her once more. There they were: the words of Cassandra herself, carefully written in a neat scrawl and delivered into his hands on the same day Lavellan had recommended Vivienne for the next Divine. "I had hoped this would ultimately prove unnecessary," he began softly in a sober cadence. "In light of what Seeker Cassandra faces, I suppose I must now concede defeat on that front… I'm so sorry it has come to this."

Eyeing him with an even blend of suspicion and alarm, the Inquisitor uncrossed her arms and snatched the paper from his grasp. He had of course intended to let her read it; there was no sense in taking it from him so abruptly. Perhaps things were indeed more strained between them than he had first presumed.

Looking up briefly before going back to her reading, she snapped, "What is this?"

Solas pressed his lips to a fine line. "These are instructions for –"

" _Fenedhis_ , I know what it is, Solas," Lavellan interrupted with a scoff deep in her throat.

He shook his head, his brow furrowing slightly, but he let it go without a word. The Herald was understandably beside herself, and there was no need to contribute further to her distress by being pedantic now.

The silence that followed moments after she lowered the paper was heartbreaking. Solas' inner turmoil, caused by his own self-restraint, ripped at his core, the elf wanting nothing more than to comfort her through the many stages of her loss. But they were past such things, now, regrettable as that may have seemed.

Perhaps, though, Cassandra was not so beyond saving as the Inquisition had presumed.

"I need to let my advisors know about this," Lavellan said quietly, turning her face low as she wiped beneath her eyes with a solitary finger. "If I could borrow the document, I'll see to it that it's returned to you by morning."

He swallowed hard, emotion clawing at the lining of his throat. "Very well…"

As she nodded and made to leave, he held up a hand automatically, his heart skipping when she paused in her steps and looked up at him. She was so beautiful, and he, a fool… With nothing planned, Solas hurriedly dreamed up something to say.

"May I examine her?" he asked, narrow, ice blue eyes staring into the misty green fields of her own. "If only to determine whether it is truly too late, or if there may yet be a path forward."

Folding the parchment in her delicate hands, the Inquisitor nodded slowly, waving for him to follow as she made her way through the archway to the Main Hall. "Come. She's been laid in my quarters."

Solas hesitated for all of a dozen seconds before bringing himself to shadow her. _In my quarters,_ she'd said. He had not set foot in there since that day, and to be invited back, even under the circumstances, was all the more disheartening. Shaking his head, he dismissed his reservations and passed through the dim, empty hall, taking long strides to the door near the throne and opening it for her. She blinked slowly, the only gratitude she could offer now, and led the way up the wooden stairwell that might as well have been rickety scaffolding.

The dust was heavy and the air was chilled, their surroundings dark and fathomless, and the wood groaned out its complaints with every step. Were they trying to be surreptitious, they would have failed utterly. Their eyes adjusted within the span of a single breath – or was that swift intake indeed from their lungs?

"Who's there?" a male voice called out.

"It's me," Lavellan replied, lighting a fire in her palm as she held the railing with the other.

Looking up, Solas could easily make out several figures sitting along the outer door of the Tower Room. Commander Cullen was one of them, his eyes darting about until they focused on the small flame offering no more light than a candle would. "Is someone with you, Inquisitor? I hear another set of footsteps."

"That would be me," Solas revealed himself, coming to a standstill midway to the landing. There was no room to stand there, presently, as not only the Commander stood watch, but the Ambassador and Spymaster as well, one asleep from exhaustion on another's shoulder, the other emerging from disturbed dreams at the sound of voices approaching.

To the far left sat Madame Vivienne, who had remained awake seemingly for the entire duration. Trading glances with the Enchantress, Solas realised that Cassandra's condition must pose a serious threat for them to resort to sitting outside like dogs. Grateful that there was at least one mage from the inner circle present when the Seeker was brought back to the keep, Solas nodded deeply to wordlessly communicate his kind regards for her services. Perhaps Madame de Fer was too tired to roll her eyes, or in no mood to accuse him of patronising her, but nevertheless she shook her head in return, stating in that simple gesture just how calamitous the prognosis was.

"Solas would like to examine Cassandra," Lavellan whispered, mindful not to disturb Josephine, "and something else has developed which I'd like to discuss, in the meantime."

Leliana threw Cullen a sleepy, wary glance, and after a moment of careful consideration, the Commander sighed, waving as if to say he deferred to her judgement on the decision. Turning to look up at the pair, Nightingale said, "The red lyrium will make you feel rather unsteady on your feet. Don't stay too long after it starts to affect you."

"I won't. Thank you," Solas uttered in his soft cadence, taking a deep breath before stepping forward to turn the door handle. Stepping between the bodies effortlessly, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

If the air out there was chilly, it was now as frigid as the mountain winds, the temperature dropping as quickly as if he had fallen through ice and into freezing lake water. By the sounds of it, they had opened all available windows to keep the woman cool. The shift not bothering him too terribly, the elf crept up the stairs with all the calm and surety of his gone, forgotten People, theorising all the while what would await him. Cassandra was comatose, just as he had grimly predicted, although it had occurred swifter than he had initially calculated. He had not factored in the contingency of the amulet separating from her body, but of course that would accelerate the growth with nothing to ward it off. Although not conscious, it was safe to assume she was suffering greatly…

None of what he had pictured in his mind prepared Solas for the reality of what awaited him.

Nor had he imagined the Lady Seeker capable of sitting upright on the bed, her glowing red eyes boring into his soul as if she had been waiting for him all along.

He froze and felt his mouth dry up, his jaw hanging slack as he stared in total disbelief. For a moment, he believed Cassandra had awoken, somehow recovering from her ordeal… but before he could turn to race down the steps and alert those just outside the door, his eyes studied her further, an expanse widening in his spirit like a black, bottomless pit.

Cassandra was not the one sitting up. Not entirely.

" _We have awakened. They cannot stand against us. They will crumble as the stone prisons which once held us. We shall arise._ "

Immediately grateful that he was alone with the entity, Solas placed his foot on the landing and walked up, rounding the rail's end and striding toward the bed with an adopted dignified air. "You wear such confidence," he glared, eyeing the stalagmite-like formation protruding from her shoulder, "but that will prove your undoing." He came to a stop near the side of the bed, staring down into the fiery eyes belonging to the Seeker, yet controlled by the power of the lyrium. "I will see to it."

No emotion shown on her face at his words, not that an expression was needed to understand the deep tenors of the threats being made. _"The barrier erected cannot bind us forever,"_ it spoke through her. _"To weaken us, he has sundered his Kind. A trade that has doomed his world and this. They lie at our mercy. His failure shall be our triumph."_

"Bear in mind: when that barrier is torn to ruin, my Kind too shall be unbound," he bit back, his heart racing within him. "My Reckoning will come, and you will tremble as you fall."

This seemed to please the lyrium on some level, as it would. _"He declares war. He shall have it. Long will they suffer the Void as have we. Plans have been laid for he who sought to seal us in the Void for all eternity. His death will bring our victory."_

"Five times you fought and were defeated," he reminded it with a hiss, deepening his glower. "When magic is restored, your destruction will be made permanent. Make no mistake: I shall see you eradicated entirely from this body, then from this world." His eyes narrowing to the edges of twin daggers, Solas seethed, "Enjoy your freedom with the knowledge that it will not last."

It did not return the glare, nor could it. Its hold was too tenuous to control such minute details, but he heard the rancour all the same. _"We await the dawn of battle. Then shall we lay waste to all he has created."_

Though it fizzled at first, the amulet's piercing white glow could be seen beneath the simple tunic, held in place by what looked to be a bowstring tied around the Seeker's neck. Once it reached full power, Cassandra's body bucked, and the hold on her was released, allowing her to fall once more to the pillows arranged along the headboard.

Its final words echoing in his mind, the elf simply closed his eyes in shame. "…So we shall."

In the ensuing silence, he sat down on the edge of the bed and positioned Cassandra more comfortably before beginning his examination.

"…Solas?"

Startled, he turned suddenly to locate the small voice in the corner, noticing the poor, cowering spirit on the sofa at last. "Cole," he breathed a relieved sigh, grateful that no one else had witness the heated exchange. "I understand you wish to take the hurt from her, but –"

"W-what was that?" he asked timidly as he pointed with a trembling hand, his knees tucked under his chin as he hugged himself protectively.

"It was nothing of concern," Solas replied in an even tone, turning back toward the limp figure on the bed. "If you wish to help, please go to our companions' aid… You can do more for them than you can here. You are needed there."

And without another word, he felt the boy disappear from the room.

His heart sinking, Solas placed Seeker Cassandra's hands over her abdomen, his fingers lingering over her own. Although he had set out not to create unnecessary attachments to the people of this time, he could not help the moroseness overtaking his soul at seeing a friend so helpless and in desperate need.

"Do not fear," he whispered to her, gripping her hand in his own for support, "a cure will be found. Have faith, Cassandra… Stand your ground…"

**~oOo~**

He couldn't bear to look at her, yet at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to stay away. After Sera's colourful description of the events surrounding Cassandra's grave condition, Varric had stumbled through the lower courtyard, guided somewhat by his friends walking on either side of him. He had shrugged off their offers of support with wordless grunts, too stunned to say anything more and in sore need of a drink, but there was no time for simple graces.

He needed a clear head to think.

Giving up trying to make him turn around, Buttercup took the lead and mounted the stairs, Hero taking the rear after Varric shuffled up after her. "Bad idea, tryin' to see Cass, now," she mumbled back to him. "Shite's too freaky up close. Trust me. Anyway, she won't know you're even there."

Varric shrugged, a reply on his lips, yet his throat too raw to deliver it. Once they reached the foyer, Varric halted as though an invisible force had laid hands on his chest and forced him to a stop.

This was where he had swung her round, dipping her to bring her in for a spontaneous, passionate kiss… This was the place he had nearly said he loved her… He had been standing right here when he made her throw the chair at him… And that was the night he had wrapped his arms around her and taken her to bed for the first time…

"You okay, Varric?" Hero asked, his low baritone quieter than ever.

Grief-stricken, the merchant prince could only shake his head, walking to his right until he reached the old chair and took a seat. He cradled his head in his hands, racking his brain for the answer that wasn't forthcoming. "Yeah, I'm okay," he finally responded, too stunned and too tired for tears to emerge. "Just give me a minute… Old memories are coming back to haunt me."

"Ah, so the usual, then," Sera nodded, keeping her distance.

She didn't much know how to react when things turned serious… Then again, neither did Varric, if he was being honest. He just needed a second to get his bearings, and after that, he could keep going. One way or another, he would go to the Seeker, even if it killed him to see her like this…

They could hear footsteps making their way up the stairs, and they turned to see who was on their way to the Main Hall. Sure enough, Dorian and Iron Bull strode through, apparently not seeing their friends in the far corner of the foyer. Sometime after they passed, a door opened at the far end, and more noise could be heard coming from near the throne, the acoustics off the stone reverberating almost too much to comprehend the conversation.

"…Cassandra…situation…rather dire…" Cullen's voice could be heard.

Josephine's light strings followed, but her symphony was too soft to reach them. Varric strained himself to listen, but shook his head, at a total loss.

"She said it don't seem dire 'nuff to take 'er ruddy necklace off," Sera told him, her superior sense of hearing coming in handy. "I mean, she said it more dainty-like, but you get it."

Frowning, the dwarf stood up and rushed to join the fold, boiling blood thundering through his veins. As he stormed through the door and approached the group, their hard bootsteps partially masked by the wide runner that carpeted the stone floor, Dorian reached into his rucksack.

"Well, we spent all this coin in the Free Marches. Could we at _least_ see if it's worth anything to her before we go through with something so permanent?"

" _What's this bullshit about removing the amulet I gave her?!"_ Varric's voice boomed despite the pain of his ragged throat. _"My ass! Not on my watch, you don't!"_

They turned, every last one of them, to stare at him in alarm, wearing expressions of shock and discomfort. All were present now. The Inquisitor froze on her throne like a statue as she stared at him, her three advisors flanking the stone arms of the seat as if posing for a portraiture. Iron Lady stood leaning on her staff for support, Chuckles beside her with his hands clasped gently at the small of his back. The Kid was less visible, but Varric could just make out his tall figure in the shadows behind the throne, pacing back and forth anxiously. Buttercup and Hero walked around from behind him to close the circle opposite Tiny and Sparkler.

The only person missing here was the Seeker. And it ripped his heart in two to recognise that.

"Varric," Inquisitor Lavellan started, her voice cracking with exhaustion, "we would never suggest such a thing if it wasn't what Cassandra wanted."

He glared with resentment at the elf, pointing an accusatory finger her way. "Andraste's ass, the Seeker wouldn't be _in_ this mess now if _you_ hadn't taken her out dragon hunting for no reason! Were you out of your _mind?!_ "

"That's _enough_ , Tethras," Leliana stepped forward, the threat of her bow made plain as she drew it in a single motion.

Varric clasped a gloved hand over his mouth, knowing he had spoken out of turn – and to a friend no less. Maker, he hadn't meant to tear at her so viciously. He'd lost sight of what was important in his anguish. Laying blame did nothing but hurt the situation, and he let out a ragged sigh.

"Sorry," he uttered, his heart thundering against his ribs. "I… I shouldn't have said that."

"That's right; you shouldn't have," Curly barked, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Although that was a natural position for him, Varric couldn't help but read a threat into his stance, all the same.

Crossing and uncrossing her legs, the Herald swallowed around the lump in her throat. "No," she nodded toward Varric, "you're correct. I let her make the decision, but I should have known better than to ask. I'm sorry for causing everyone pain, especially Cassandra… Believe me, I blame myself more than any of you ever could."

Shifting her eyes from the dwarf to the Ambassador, Lavellan gave her a solitary nod. Wordlessly complying, Josephine walked down the steps and offered Varric a creased parchment.

"…What's this?" he asked as she held it out for him to take, noting their silence. Reaching forward, he held it under his nose and read in the dim light, recognising Cassandra's careful handwriting straight away:

_To All Whom It May Concern:_

_I, Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast, wish for my wishes to be known when it comes to my death and the matters surrounding it. Should my death from the red lyrium be unavoidable, and should I be incapacitated or unable to seek my death honourably in battle, I wish for the amulet currently sustaining my life to be removed. Let my soul go to the Maker's side to rest in peace._

_Also, I do not wish to be entombed in Nevarra in the Pentaghast family crypt. The thought alone terrifies me, especially if my body were to spread the red lyrium to my family's bones, or worse, to any mourners. I wish to have a plaque commissioned and placed beside my brother and parents. Dispose of my body safely and within means. I would have liked a Chantry burial, but I must settle for a blessing from Mother Giselle and the removal of my remains from those they may harm._

_These are my only wishes. I am grateful for the time that I served Thedas, the Divine, the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisition, and the many friends I made along my path. You may divide personal articles among yourselves. My sword and shield are functional and strong. Do not turn them into ridiculous relics. Likewise, my armour will serve to protect others in times of war or peace._

_I only wish for my signed copy of "Tale of the Champion" to go to Varric. He should have it…_

Here, a sentence or two had been scratched out, but having neared the end of the document, she must have decided against starting over. Whatever she'd written, it had something to do with him, for he could just make out his name beneath the smeared ink. At the bottom of the page, it ended sadly with:

_Faithfully Yours,_

_C. Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine, Servant of Andraste, Child of the Maker._

"Typical Seeker… Selfless to a damned fault," Varric sniffed, lowering the parchment to his side and casting his eyes down to hide the remorse written on his face. "Remind me to lend her a thesaurus…"

The Main Hall hadn't been this quiet since long before they'd arrived after the disaster at Haven. No whispers of flame from the hearth, not even the steady rhythm of breath from the dozen people present, could be discerned in the stillness. He could hear a pin drop in the hall, if one so happened to fall now.

"No one here has resigned Cassandra to fate," Solas informed him, breaking the oppressive silence. "Hope remains, however tenuous. Nothing is inevitable, Varric."

A thousand responses crossed his mind, but memories were more prominent. One of lying beside the Seeker in bed as she slept, writing words with his finger on the back of her hand to convey that which he could not speak. _I miss you. Don't worry. I won't give up. Stay with me. Still love you._

_…I won't give up…_

If he was going to offer a cure, it had to come to him now, or it was over.

Instead, a door creaked to the right, Cupcake stepping out after retiring late into the night. Catching sight of the large gathering, she jerked in surprise. "Oh! Hey, everybody," she waved with a smile, the expression faltering to one of nervousness after a long, awkward pause. Then she seemed to decipher what this was about. "Oh. Oh, of course. Excuse me," she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck as she made to walk toward her quarters for the evening.

"Ah, a moment, Dagna," Dorian chirped, his soft grin not quite reaching his eyes. "You're just the enchanting little dwarf I was looking for." He dug into his bag and pulled out one of the empty runes they'd brought back from Xenon the Antiquarian's shop outside Kirkwall. "Do you think perhaps these might come to good use, or have I wasted my hard-earned coin on pretty, ancient rocks?"

Her brows drawing together in curiosity, she doubled back and came to stand beside the Tevinter mage, taking the proffered rune. "… _Wow_ ," Dagna marvelled, her brows raising in interest. Her face was ever so expressive. "I've only ever seen diagrams of these in old research tomes back in the mage tower!"

"So, you're familiar with these things," Blackwall piped up, moving to join them, his arms crossed over his chest.

She craned her neck to look up at him. "Only a little," the dwarf shook her head, turning the rune upside down and right-side up again and again while she examined it closely. "They're extremely old… Actually, I've never had the pleasure of working with one, myself. Gosh! I'd have to study this for a couple weeks at least before I got the hang of it…"

Vivienne's heels clicked as she joined them as well, her head held high. "Having something ready in 'weeks' is not sufficient enough. We would require something immediately, dear."

Pursing her lips, the arcanist didn't appear optimistic. "A week then?" she asked meekly, unsure that she was giving herself a wide enough window to work with. "Wait, what do you need me to do with them? If this is about Seeker Cassandra, I don't think…"

"What of Samson's armour?" Cullen inquired, his voice fatigued and impatient. "Have you learned anything from it that you can use on these runes?"

Put on the spot in front of so many eager bodies, Dagna turned to face them, her shoulders hunching slightly. "Well, if you want a master corrupting rune, _maybe_ , sure – but I don't see how that's helpful, under the circumstances…"

"'Ey, be nice to Widdle," Buttercup jumped in, twitching in discomfort. "You lot are puttin' too much pressure on 'er. Ease off, right, or I'll 'ave ya."

Varric and the others turned their gazes to Sera then. "'Widdle'?" Bull repeated, the non-existent brow over his eyepatch raising.

She glared back at him, avoiding Dagna's confused yet interested stare. " _Yeah_ , wot of it?" Blushing profusely, she huffed and plunked down on a step in a strange fit of embarrassment, crossing her arms over her knees as she pouted to herself.

Josephine twirled her quill between thumb and forefinger, clearing her throat and getting back on point. "Mistress Dagna, we apologise if we ask too much, but the situation is most urgent. Please, if you need assistance with your enchantments, do let us know so that we can provide what might be serviceable."

Freezing in place, Varric felt an odd jolt jog his memory, but the source of the strange feeling wasn't immediate in coming to him… _Something about Hawke?_ But why would his old friend come to mind so suddenly?

"I'm sure I have all the tools I need," Dagna replied, shrugging her shoulders. "Honestly, it's the knowledge I don't really have. Even if I combed over those old tomes, I'd still have to get them delivered from Kinloch Hold. And then there's the research, the experimentation… The enchantment side of things is the least of my worries. It's these old elven runes that I don't know much about. I'm more familiar with the dwarven models."

 _Shit, there it was again_ , Varric frowned in consternation. _What is_ _it about that word?_

"They can't be _that_ different," Bull added, his lip turning up in a slight growl. "Not that I get all that magical crap, but come on, a rune's a rune. Whether it's the dwarves, the humans, or the elves, does it really _matter_ who made it? Should work pretty much the same way."

Vivienne shook her head, blinking hard to wash the dryness from her burning brown eyes. "I've spent the majority of my life in the Circle, _The Iron Bull_ , and I'm confident in stating that I've never laid eyes on such a rune. Not personally, I'm afraid. If the elves designed it, they weren't the modern folk we've come to know," she said, nodding toward the Inquisitor in deference. "If we only have but a few in our possession, I would suggest not wasting them on assumptions and speculation. Once a rune contains an enchantment, the magic therein cannot be undone."

_Again, that odd jolt…_

"And we were only able to afford two," Dorian winced, taking the rune from the dwarf's outstretched hand. "Well? Let's brainstorm together, shall we? Is there anyone in Thedas who might be able to enchant something useful with these things?"

Just then, the Kid stepped out from behind the throne, staring intensely at Varric as though boring into his very soul. Extending his hand, the Kid pointed squarely at his chest hair. "You know someone," he said cryptically, holding his ghostly gaze.

"I do?" Varric's wide eyes looked back in astonishment, garnering an odd glance or two his way.

"Yes," the boy replied. "You're thinking of him, but you don't know it, because you're sad and need sleep. _Enchantment._ Every time you hear it, your heart _feels_ it."

He was right about that much, at least; he was definitely feeling something peculiar… And damn it, he wished he had the answer, but for the life of him, he couldn't work out what the hell the Kid was talking about…

But then Varric stopped cold.

"Holy _shit_ ," he realised at last, the sweet revelation like a bolt to the gut, "…I _do_ know!"

Every person standing around the throne turned to stare at him, their faces puzzled. "Varric," the Inquisitor eyed him worriedly, "you're talking to yourself, I hope you realise. Are you feeling all right, or do you need to go lie down?"

They hadn't heard Cole at all, and when Varric glanced the spirit's way to explain, he had disappeared without a trace.

But, oh Andraste's ass, that didn't matter now. Frantic, Varric's heart worked overtime to catch up with the adrenaline now flooding his body. He fought to breathe, silently cursing himself that he hadn't thought of it sooner.

"I know a guy," he whispered, feeling lightheaded and trying not to sway in place.

"Sorry, lad? We didn't catch that," Blackwall muttered beside him. "Say again?"

He took off like a shot and raced up to Dagna, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her incessantly in his excitement. "Cupcake - I _know_ a guy,"he repeated louder, tears threatening to well up as he spoke the words like an answer to prayer. His hands trembling, he let her go and stumbled back, running a hand through his ginger hair.

"What?" Sera lifted her head, her ears perking up.

"Who?" demanded Vivienne.

"What's going on?" Dorian nearly squeaked.

The questions battered him from all sides, but he was lost in his own thoughts. " _That's_ why Hawke sprouted up in my head! He used to stay at _Hawke's_ place in Hightown!" Coming back to himself, Dagna was the first one he made eye contact with, her height being so near his own.

Desperate, he composed himself and stepped toward her. "Andraste's ass, we've gotta get him here. He'd find a way to work those damned things – I'm _sure as hell_ of it!"

Josephine held up a hand in an effort to command the proceedings. "Master Tethras, please. Whom is it that you would like us to find?"

His mind swimming, he struggled to recall the one thing he needed: a damned name. And he was usually so good with those, but it had been so long… "A kid – a dwarf. He's a natural at runecasting. He helped us out dozens of times." Snapping his fingers as he struggled to jog his memory, he explained, "He's simple-minded, but the nicest little guy you'll ever meet – and insanely smart when it comes to enchanting shit."

"Even better than Widdle?" Sera frowned from her place on the stairs.

Dagna stared at Varric, her blue eyes as wide as saucer plates. "Stones," she uttered, completely stunned, "I know who you're talking about. _Sandal_. Sandal Feddic, right?"

Varric snapped his fingers hard, doubling over. " _That's_ the guy!"

"Maker's Breath," Nightingale gasped, "I know him! He and his father, Bodahn, accompanied us during the Blight!"

"Can we get him here?" Cullen asked pointedly, turning to the Herald.

"Do we even know where he _is?_ " Dorian glanced down at him, Varric's urgency infecting the rest of the group. "Thedas is a fairly large continent, if you recall."

He threw out an arm, digging through the old, dusty files of his memories from Kirkwall. "Last I heard," he wagered, "Hawke said Bodahn was taking him to find work with the Empress in Orlais."

"It's our last chance," Solas spoke quickly, his eyes darting to Lavellan hopefully. She looked back at him, resolve solidifying within her as she squared her narrow shoulders. "Perhaps we should try, Inquisitor."

"Cassandra needs us," Varric pleaded, now completely assured that he was on the right track. "Please, let's bring this kid in for her!"

"Inquisitor," Leliana turned, her feet placed like she was about to take flight, "may I?"

Lavellan steeled herself, and nodded at last. "Of course. Don't even ask for permission from here on out. Just do everything you can. One way or another, we'll find this Sandal and bring him to Skyhold at once."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering about the Solas PoV scene, I took inspiration from a bit of fan speculation. Here is a link to read if you're interested: meliciousintent.tumblr.com/post/160147738123/tel-abelas-mofo-guildedadversary


	31. Sleeping Sickness

The seconds ticked quietly past on the towering grandfather clock by the door. All the candle sconces were lit for supper, casting a warm glow on the deep blood reds of the dining room walls. Father poured glasses of cool water for his children, whom sat patiently in chairs too large for their small frames, while Mother finished cutting her daughter's roasted vegetables into more manageable bites.

The little girl poked a fork over her plate, an alien sense of discomfort washing over her. Her parents' movements were lethargic and unusually silent, as though attempting to create an atmosphere of calm in the midst of impending disaster.

But the strangest part of it all was that she felt as if this had all happened before.

"Mutti," she muttered, wiping her brow as she clenched her teeth.

"What is it, Cassie-bear?" Lady Tigana asked, laying a napkin over her long skirts with a trembling hand. Cassandra caught the discreet movement. Despite her years, not much if anything had ever escaped her notice.

She looked up at her mother after a long blink, her eyes struggling to focus through an inexplicable haze. "It's too hot. I can't breathe. I'm going to open the window now."

Mother chuckled to herself, one side of her mouth twitching into a smirk. "It does not sound like you're  _asking_  for my permission. Go, then."

Not waiting another moment longer, Cassandra slid off her chair and raced to the window, reaching up with tiny fingers to pull the large pane inward, the outside air volcanic on her skin and offering no relief. She shook her head as she frowned out the glass at the lingering fog, pain rising within her. "My shoulder hurts, Vati." Rubbing the burning muscle, she complained, "I don't feel very well. May I be excused?"

"Eat something first, darling," her father bade her, patting the top rung of her empty chair. "The cooks don't slave away in the kitchens every afternoon for you to skip your meals."

She wasn't hungry in the slightest, her stomach tying itself into impossible knots, pinching her guts with pangs of an odd dread. It was as if she had been here before, and yet as familiar and inviting as it all seemed, for some reason that she couldn't fathom, this was the last place she wanted to be.

"Come, it's your favourite," a preteen Anthony said as he dipped steaming hot bread into the meat drippings. "Don't you want to grow up big and strong like me?"

From where she stood, Cassandra heard a loud rapping from the front end of their stately home. Her heart quickened in her chest, eyes darting from her brother to the clock, where the pendulum picked up its formerly steady pace and caused her to glare in confusion. Time was growing short, racing forward, hurdling toward the hour of goodbye. She tried to walk to her chair for support as the world shifted uncannily beneath her feet, but her pace was languid and disconnected. With every step she took, her family seemed to move further away…

It was then that her father's footman gave a nervous knock just before poking his balding head through the door, his withered old face pale and drawn. "Lord Mathias, I-I apologise for –"

"I'm having dinner with my wife and children, Nestor. Tell our visitor to come back in the morning." He didn't turn to face the man, instead taking a gentle sip of Antivan sherry, opting to ignore any interruptions.

"But m-my Lord," he stammered, gripping the door until his knuckles shone white on the dark wood, "they've come from the castle…"

She saw her mother's chest rise quickly in a silent gasp, the breath held inward as she reached across the table to grasp her husband's hand. "The King promised us a night to prepare the children," the words quivered from her throat.

At her distress, the Lord of the House's expression dropped, his mournful brown eyes locking on hers. Heartbreak passed between them, and the little girl's stomach rose to her mouth.

"Prepare us?" Anthony asked warily, his fork clanking against his plate as he set it down. He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. "I don't understand…"

Father spoke softly, his darkened eyes drifting to the faces of his young ones. "…It seems the King has not honoured his word." Inescapable remorse hung in his stare, along with all the longings of a man who had hoped to watch his children come of age. So much was said that words themselves could never convey, a heart-wrenching sadness permeating through the air. She wanted to change the outcome, knowing what was coming, but it was set in stone long before. All she could do was wait for the inevitable, and helplessness seized her completely.

Like a violent storm, an armed group of uniformed men burst into the dining room and shoved the defenceless servant to the floor, shouts and cries reverberating off the walls. Without a thought for himself, Anthony dove to his right toward Cassandra and wrapped an arm around her middle, dragging her to safety as fast as his legs could carry them. Her throat was raw as she realised the screams were her own, tears blurring her sight as their father was yanked from his chair and abruptly shoved out. The unmistakable sounds of fists connecting with flesh spoke of the vicious beatdown occurring just beyond the threshold.

Their mother rushed over in a whirl of satin and lace, touching her palms to their cheeks one last time before the guards laid armoured gauntlets on her forearms.  _"Death to traitors,"_  one of them seethed, binding the woman's hands and ripping her forever from the arms of her children. Cassandra never knew her mother had sobbed until this moment, reliving it all in a desperate clarity.

" _Run_ , Cassie," Anthony rasped, shoving the girl unceremoniously toward the window, her only escape from what was to come. "Don't look back!"

Her knee cut down on the window ledge as she pulled herself up, tearing a gash that stung worse the longer the weight of her slight, six-year-old body added cutting pressure to the wound. Blood absorbed into her white tights and her dress shoes slipped repeatedly, unable to gain purchase on the varnished wood.

The sudden absence of his hand left a cold spot on her back, and the shouts of protest from her brother, now struggling with the King's men, filled her with a relentless horror. In that moment, she forgot entirely any thoughts of running.

The grandfather clock ticked faster. Faster.  _Faster_.

Cassandra leapt with a cry from the first-floor window before the Castle Guard could reach her, and the world turned upside down…

She landed with a thud in a completely different scene. The ticking of the clock instantly morphed into the trotting of a pair of sturdy horses pulling a carriage down a side street in Nevarra's Grand Necropolis. Cassandra was unfamiliar with this part of the city, but she'd long-since abandoned the notion of getting her bearings. They were seated in a silence so loud that it thrummed in her ears, the curtains drawn over small windows to block out the blinding light of midday. Her cheeks were soaked with salty tears, her mind in a state of mute shock and fresh trauma. Dressed in a black dress too itchy and hot for comfort, she clung to her brother's hand as if it were the tether preventing her from plummeting into a bottomless ravine.

"I hope you're grateful," Uncle Vestalus grumbled from the padded seat across from them. He hacked out a wet cough into his worn handkerchief and tucked the soiled cloth neatly into his breast pocket, disgusting her enough to cause her to gag behind the shelter of Anthony's shoulder. "Were it not for my good-standing with King Markus," he continued, his voice clearer and harsher than before, "your heads would be posted on the wall alongside my  _fool_ of a brother and his  _idiot_ wife."

Cassandra dared not open her red-rimmed eyes. Despite being released from the dungeon, the events proceeding the first taste of freedom since that night would scar her young mind for the rest of her life. A long silence was drawn out further by the sense that perhaps it would have been better to have died with her parents rather than to have been forced to stand witness at their execution, brutally using their deaths as both an example to the king's enemies and a warning should the Pentaghast children ever seek retribution from the rightful ruler of Nevarra.

"Thank you for taking us in, Uncle," Anthony uttered in a daze past the hoarseness in his throat.

She glanced up then at her rock, her protector, her idol, taken aback by the quality of his voice… He wanted to cry. The way his lip quivered and his speech shook spoke that surprising truth like an honest declaration. Anthony wouldn't allow himself, though, as he was determined to stay strong… for  _her_. Squeezing her hand tighter, as though he too was dependant on his sibling to see him through the darkness, her brother swallowed around his depthless grief and added, "We'll behave ourselves… We won't be a burden. I promise."

Shuddering, she looked up just as her uncle shot them a glare of pure disdain. " _Hmph!_ You're far beyond that, now." The prestigious man now utterly responsible for their upbringing met her tearful brown eyes upon catching her soft whimper, and suddenly, something in the Mortalitasi softened, though the flash of sympathy was short-lived.

Letting free a sigh of exhaustion, he amended his harsh tone. "I could not stand watch as my niece and nephew faced the axe for a crime they did not commit… I am an educated man, but I know nothing of raising children…" Uncle Vestalus crossed his legs, wiping his nose with the same soiled kerchief in discomfort. "However, in my brother's memory, I shall try… I am sorry for your loss, little ones. I know this is… difficult for you."

Cassandra could hold her tears back no longer, burying her face in her brother's sleeve as she wept in hysterics.  _"I want Mutti,"_  she choked through her sobs, clinging to his arm with desperation. He patted her long black hair in an attempt to soothe her, but it scarcely eased the pain. "I w-want to go  _home!"_

The horses gradually came to a stop, and the steps of the footman could be heard outside the carriage before light pierced her eyes. Reaching toward her, Uncle Vestalus took her gently by the shoulder while guiding her to the door and down the steps.

"You  _are_ home, girl," he reassured her. "Hide your tears and be strong. Do not look back."

_Cassandra stepped forward into the blinding light…_

"Hold your shield  _higher,"_  Anthony instructed in the spacious courtyard behind Uncle Vestalus' estate. "You're too short, Cass! I could reach my sword over your guard and run you through easily! Do not leave yourself open for attack!"

The girl raised her shield before her brother-turned-trainer could strike. "It  _won't_ be so easy for you when I am  _grown_ ," she growled, taking a careless swing at his flank with her practice sword.

He blocked her sloppy advance, knocking his wooden shield against her own and forcing her back a handful of paces. "Do you think that you will defy nature and grow taller than a  _dragon?_  Your  _shield_ , Cass. It's the only thing you have standing between you and the beast's belly.  _Act_ like it!"

The next shove wasn't nearly as strong as what she had witnessed when he play-fought with boys his own age. " _Stop_ going easy on me! I  _am_ the dragon!" Cassandra ducked low as he swung the dull blade at her head, spinning in place with her leg out to trip him.

Anthony lost his balance and fell with an  _oof!_ on his back, where he lay staring up at the hot Nevarran sun. "Ow," he groaned, effecting a humble laugh. "Nice footwork."

Proud of her accomplishment, she strode toward her brother and reached a hand down to help him up – but he pulled her boot out from under her instead, and she collapsed just as hard on her side. Luckily, her pride hurt worse than her shoulder. " _Ouch!_   _Hey!_  You cheated –!"

"You said I shouldn't go easy on you," he grinned, sitting up and tussling the grass from his dark hair. "The fight's not over until your opponent has surrendered or is dead. And I'm  _neither_ , as you can see."

" _Bullshit_ , Tony," she snapped, leaping at the teenager with fists flying haphazardly. "I want a rematch!"

"Oh, such  _foul language_  for a young lady," he teased with a wink. Anthony picked up his shield to protect himself from his sister's wrath at that. "All right, you win! Best out of five! But then I've to meet my friends for a couple of hours in town." Unable to help himself, he reminded her, "And you've got dance lessons in half an hour, do you not? I hope you picked out a pretty dress to wear! Will it be the red one, to match your raging blush?"

" _Ugh!_  Do not  _remind_ me!" She raised her sword and clashed it against his shield repeatedly, taking out her frustrations on the battered, splintering wood.

"I was only joking!  _Maker_ , go easy on me, woman!"

He was laughing behind that thing, and it wasn't long before Cassandra could no longer grip the hilt of her sword, her giggles too fluttery to control. " _Ugh, fine_. Truce," she smiled as she relented, panting heavily to catch her wheezing breath.

There was a glint in his eye as he glanced toward the manor house. "I'm thirsty. Race you to the kitchens!"

He darted past her, his leather boots kicking up dust as he rushed off in the other direction. Cassandra ran for her life before Anthony disappeared into thin air, and the sun darted through the sky and settled to the east in a dizzying spectacle, instantly resetting to the dawn of a new day…

A dark day.

" _Run! Don't look back!"_

But, oh Maker, she did look, her eyes full of terror as the scythe swung low. And then that sickly sound. A sound of grinding bones, pouring vessels, and severed dreams. She would never erase that sick symphony from her memory for as long as she lived.

Her soul was on the ground… alongside his head.

Their mage kidnappers scattered, dark plans left in shambles, fleeing on horseback from the murder scene of a promising dragon hunter. He had refused to go along with their demands, fighting these attackers and managing to pry his sister from the grips of her captors. She had thought he was right behind her, sprinting to safety on her heels, but the cultists' mounts had gained on them.

The dust at their departure settled at last, and she found herself hopelessly alone. Cassandra cradled Anthony's head in her lap, hyperventilating through her tears and struggling to drag his body closer, if only to have all of him near her one last time.

Blood seeped through every surface, soaking grounds and garments alike. Her white nightgown was as red as the dresses she was forced to don, both lives a reality she could not bear to endure. "No, _no!"_  she pleaded with the Maker, her hands dripping with the crimson remnants of a man she had cherished beyond knowing. Her cries of grief were indistinguishable from the roars of dragons, her heart a furnace for a fire that held no other purpose but to raze every last mage to the ground.

Why was this happening? Why was she being forced to relive the hells of her past? What purpose did it serve to remember this pain, to sunder her spirit all over, to remind her of tragedies she had no power to prevent…?

_Why…?_

And as she wept, stroking her brother's flowing black locks from his forehead, staring at a glazed pair of brown eyes so like her own, yet empty, never to smile at her again, she felt the ghost of a hand lay gently upon her own, stroking her small, bloodied fingers with a calloused, tender touch…

**~oOo~**

 On the other side of the Veil, long into the night, Varric ran his thumb along the back of the Seeker's palm, wondering if she knew he was there…

Despite all his attempts to distract or ease his troubled mind, he'd spent weeks on the road recalling every line, every scar, every smile, eager to hear her grating voice again, her genuine laughter, even her scoff of derision… And now, instead of all he had hoped to come back to, he was faced with his worst fears come to life.

The Seeker was now in a veritable coma, alive in name only. Blood red wafts like those that had appeared over her form on the morning at Chateau de Ghislain hovered around her form like toxic vapour, heat and sickness permeating the air. Her athletic, seemingly imperviable body was laid out like a corpse at a wake, hands positioned one over the other on her stomach, and the dull spike of a red lyrium shard blazed forebodingly on her shoulder, illuminating her sharp cheekbone, darkening her deep scar, and highlighting the pulses through every vein in her tranquil face.

At first, he had stared for what must have been mere minutes, though it felt like decades had passed, sapping him of hope and the ability to stand. Against the advice he had received and his own better judgment, Varric took a seat beside her still form on the Inquisitor's stately bed in the Tower Room as his knees buckled, silently acknowledging the deathly whispers thrumming through his mind as he drew closer. He studied her with a clinical writer's eye, absorbing every detail of how she appeared, felt, smelled, if only to understand and accept what had happened in his absence.

Clammy and dehydrated all at once, Cassandra's skin was cracked like a dry riverbed, fever sweat glistening under his fingertips. She needed care: healing spells, water, something in the way of food to sustain her, but he had nothing to offer her in her time of need…

He reached across to reposition the dark braid, which had fallen loose over her chest. His hand drifted to her glowing amulet, Andraste's Sun glittering faintly on her collarbone, reminding him with foreboding clarity that the power within his gift was fading by the hour. Pearls of sweat dotted his face, his hand shaking unsteadily as he shifted his attention back to the long braid, trying and failing to pin it around her crown. The only crown this stubborn Nevarran princess would ever wear with pride.

"Varric…"

He wouldn't shift his eyes from her body, the red lyrium wafts over her form hypnotising him into a subtle daze. She was just as entrancing as the hearth fire in the Main Hall he often stared deep into, an inferno burning steadily before his very eyes until he was sure she would be nothing more than dust. His mind and faculties were clouded, but he refused to entertain the reasons behind time growing incomprehensible and meaningless. The shard through her shoulder seemed to bore into his mind, forcing him to confront what he'd only considered as a worst-case scenario before this mess.

Cassandra wouldn't be lying here unconscious, her life endangered, if he had just done what he was best at from the beginning and lied through his damned teeth. The one time he had decided to tell Bianca the truth, and look where it had led them…?

_That'll get you every time… Should've spun a story…_

A hand slipped over his own, gently prising each strong finger away from the Seeker, and his concentration broke. "What?" he asked, looking up to meet the concerned eyes of a stalwart friend.

Dorian pressed his lips to a small line beneath a dark moustache, shaking his head calmly, yet with authority. "Time's up, I'm afraid," the Altus informed him, hoisting the man up gently by his arms.

Varric spared a glance back down at the woman on the bed, brows lowering in bitter remorse. "Come on, Sparkler," he protested, his hoarse voice weak at best, "you know I can't just leave her like this…"

"You must, though," he replied, reluctance evident in his tone, "and I'm sorry to be the one to tear you away, but you've outworn your welcome, yet again. Keep this nonsense up and I'll have to resort to blood magic to unscramble your addled brains." He walked the dwarf to the stairs, pausing only when Varric stood at the landing instead of taking the steps down to the Main Hall.

He held his gaze on the bottom door, waiting for his sanity to return, but there was no use trying at this point. This whole situation was insane, and it ate at him incessantly. The merchant prince shook his head in a slow and steady denial of reality. "Have we heard anything from Orlais, yet?"

Had the dwarf possessed the wherewithal to glance upward, he would have seen Dorian's expression of sympathetic scepticism. "I'm sure Nightingale's messengers are fast fliers, but even if they've reached Halamshiral, it'll be some time more before we know anything useful."

So that was a no. Varric sighed deeply, rubbing the broken bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He was beginning to understand Cassandra's general lack of patience with sitting around while doing nothing useful – that, or his time around the red lyrium was fraying his nerves. There were simple ways to pass the time, like getting rest, but he'd not slept a wink since returning from the Black Emporium and he wasn't in the mood to lie down.  _Get some sleep and leave Cassandra to the healers,_ he could practically hear Sparkler saying – and maybe he actually  _had_ said as much, but he'd inadvertently tuned out most of what was going on around him.

It was impossible to feel anything, given that he'd already cycled through every definitive emotion in the book. Now, he simply felt…  _broken_. It was as if a key component on Bianca had snapped off at some indeterminate point, and now the whole damned thing refused to fire, leaving him utterly vulnerable to a barrage of attacks from all sides.

"…hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this is for your own good."

He snapped out of his momentary daze, trying not to sway from fatigue. "Sorry, Sparkler... I didn't catch that."

Out of empathy, Dorian opted for a gentle smile, hesitating only slightly. "I'm barring you from entering this room again until she's on the mend." He raised up a hand in anticipation of an argument, accurately predicting the dwarf's stab of outrage. "You've exposed yourself beyond what's safe as it is. It wasn't my idea, but after Alexius briefed us on the symptoms of 'red delirium', as he calls it, I can't quite argue with Sister Leliana's conclusions. And everyone else has already been made aware, so don't think you can charm your way back into these quarters… I know this is hard, Varric, but... I can only say I'm sorry."

Discovering that he had been banned from this moment forward – by none other than Nightingale, who seemed to like nothing better than keeping Varric at a hundred arms' length from the Seeker – stirred a thousand backhanded comments within him, but he was aware that his frustrations were being manipulated into rage, toyed with and amplified by the blighted lyrium. After a few shaky breaths, he was back under control, the only signs which still lingered being the red on his unshaven face. He needed a bed, and he needed it yesterday… literally. Maybe after a quick nap, he'd be able to deal with this whole shit-fest a little better.

Tentatively, he took the first step, but stopped in his tracks when his heart was utterly crushed in a vice. Whether it was an effect of that evil shit or his heart couldn't take the lack of sleep, he didn't truly understand. All he knew was that it hurt to move, so powerless to fight back against the pain.

Varric gulped hard as his breathing quickened, sweat beginning to bead again on his skin from another cause entirely. "I don't know if I can keep going, Sparkler," he shook his head, his whiskey eyes still focused on the blackness that was the door at the bottom of the stairs. It felt like miles instead of just a few measly steps, his body aching at the mere sight. "Walking out of here now might just kill me…"

Greeted by marked silence for a moment, the Tevinter mage produced possibly the saddest smile Varric had ever witnessed him elicit. "To be in love," the man wistfully sighed, turning away to administer spells of pain relief to alleviate Cassandra's dying body.

Paling at the top of the stairs, Varric Tethras, famed author and storyteller, at last knew with heartbreaking clarity the true definition of love.

It wasn't secluded rendezvous, or romantic candlelight, or scattered rose petals on a bed of white satin. Nor was it smiles of happiness or cut diamonds mounted on gold. It wasn't settling down behind white picket fences. It wasn't walking on clouds or daydreaming behind a soft smile.

Love was eternal worry and perpetual suffering. Love was a bond so strong that to sever it was as real and numbing as any mortal death. Love was that stubborn knot in the gut, a desperate sorrow yearning for release, an aching beauty. A love true and good was rare, inexplicable, but once realised, irreplaceable. Inescapable.

Varric knew it in his crumbling soul, felt it in his weary bones. He was, and always would be, her prisoner, in every sense of the word. He had never stopped being thus. Even into the arms of death, he would follow her, draped in heavy iron chains, willingly or not, body or spirit, into the fathomless Void of Forever.

And this love he held for Cassandra might, in due time, very well kill him.

He hadn't understood until now just how right he had been for all those wasted years…

_Love is an asshole._

**~oOo~**

Varric should have gone straight to his quarters. That would have been the smart thing to do, but that wasn't what happened, as it turned out. Instead, his exhausted mind had gravitated directly toward Herald's Rest Tavern, and he walked through the doors and out of the cold like a Great Bear wandering into her den at the start of hibernation season. The comparison was completely fitting: he certainly felt like he could sleep for a good six months or so, give or take a few weeks depending on what nasty state the world was in outside.

At the far side of the tavern and beneath the shadow cast by the stairs sat Tiny and a few cohorts from his mercenary company, their expressions dour and postures slumped not so much with relaxation, but overcast with a sombre tone dominating the rest of the keep. Near the group sat both Hero and Buttercup, each with a beer stein placed on the table in front of them. Lost in his own world, Blackwall didn't look up from his unfocused daze, and likewise, Sera had propped her chin on her wrist, staring out the window as though the stars offered livelier conversation.

Nodding at Maryden as he passed, he tactfully ignored the odd wink and nod she threw him, heading straight for the bar. Cabot acknowledged him with a soft grunt and grabbed up a large mug in anticipation of Varric rattling off his usual.

He raised a finger, giving the bartender pause. "Not this time," he mumbled with a shake of his head. Adjusting the tightness of one of his earrings, he sighed hard enough to stir the loose ginger strands falling loosely over his face. "Uhm… give me a couple rounds for the guys in the back."

"Sure thing," the dwarf nodded, setting a pitcher under the tap. "Anything else?"

Varric thought for a moment, wherein he nearly fell asleep on his feet, but came back around after Cabot snapped his sausage fingers mere centimetres from his nose. He must have zoned out longer than he'd intended. "Sorry, uh… Hey, what's the Seeker's preferred drink?"

Cabot gave the man an odd glance before clarity at last hit him. Luckily, he didn't bring up the obvious and let sleeping dogs lie. "Pint of bitter, usually."

His brows shot up at that, the ghost of a laugh escaping past his teeth. "Shit. The jokes write themselves."

The bartender snorted. "I know, right? So, is that what you're after?" He didn't bother looking around for Cassandra. The whole keep was aware of her plight, and Varric wouldn't be surprised if all the known world had heard by now.

Rather than answer the question directly, he simply nodded. "Send them over to us. And put it on my tab. Keep it open, alright?" Knowing the barkeep wasn't fond of tabs given his clienteles' lack of prompt payment and their propensity to run them high, Varric drummed on the bar in parting and turned around before he could protest, walking right past Maryden once again. The tune she strummed was new, but he gave it a miss anyway - until the lyrics pushed past the haze of insomnia, his pierced ears burning bright:

 _Slayer of dragons_  
_L'héroïne d'Orlais,_  
_Divine's Right Hand,_  
_Maker, guide her way_

 _Weaver of tales,_  
_From Marches he hails._  
_Sings highly of heroes,_  
_Who don't oft' prevail._

 _Lost in their pride,_  
_Foes from the start._  
_The Herald's cause_  
_Did soften the heart._

 _The secret they shared_  
_Could not be contain'd._  
_The fire between them_  
_Is hardly explain'd._

 _A Seeker of Truth,_  
_A Spinner of Lies,_  
_A lover, a fighter,_  
_But still true love vies_

Varric could hardly listen over the hum of blood in his ears, his face beet-red as he cleared his throat and navigated through the tables to his friends. Trying to ignore the stares and whispers as he passed the throngs of pilgrims and soldiers, he cleared his throat and waved in greeting.

"How many times has she played that tune?" he muttered under his breath, a hand blocking view of his face until he could collect himself. "Andraste's ass, if there's  _one_  good thing about Cassandra being unconscious, that song is it."

Sera swivelled in her seat at the sound of his voice, thin brows raised as she looked off toward the hearth fire. " _Pfft._ Now ya know how  _I_ feel. Get used to it; can't  _pay_ 'er to shut up."

"I think it's lovely," Blackwall's deep barrel offered as a meagre compliment, using his legs against the wall as leverage to balance his chair on its hind legs. "The melody's soothing. Not too many love stories from this Age get a proper song about them."

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Varric grimaced at the human. "Hero, how would you like it if she just belted out one day about you and Ruffles?  _And_ offhandedly referred to you as a liar?"

His arms crossed over his chest, Hero's chair fell forward on all fours again, face paling. "I, uh…" He scratched the chin hidden deep beneath his beard. "Well, that… puts it into a bit of perspective. Better you than me, then."

Before Varric could continue complaining, an empty chair was pulled out by a delicate hand with a white satin sleeve. No sooner did he look up to lock eyes with the newcomer than the one and only Vivienne de Fer took her seat.

Right across from him.

In the middle of the tavern.

He stared at her utterly dumbfounded, his mind drawing a blank for anything to say in his defence. "Well, … _shit_."

The soon-to-be-Divine's cool expression didn't alter in the slightest. "'Shit'  _indeed_ , my dear," she enunciated each word slowly, deep brown eyes fixated on him alone.

Caught in a trap of his own making, Varric shook his head in half-hearted denial. "It's not what it looks like. I'm just…  _being social_ ," he tried to explain over a nervous laugh, appealing to her nature.

Around him, his so-called friends, with whom he'd just claimed to be socialising, began to move away like roaches skittering away from daylight. "So, um… I suddenly need to hit the hay," Hero claimed, ducking out with his mug in tow.

"Yeah, I'm jus' gonna piss off," Sera mumbled, scurrying from her chair toward the stairs. "Good luck, Varric!"

They'd abandoned him, those treacherous bastards. Shifting uncomfortably, he felt the knot at the base of his neck ache as the Iron Lady craned her slender neck, throwing a sidelong glance at Tiny in the corner.

Frowning, Bull's horns barely moved as he shook his head. "This is  _my_  spot, ma'am. And I'm not  _inclined_  to move."

She continued to stare him down, and Varric could only imagine the look on her face while the qunari remained immobile, his massive fingers interlaced over his abdomen to show just how comfortable and relaxed he was in the face of Thedas' most powerful woman. Seconds felt like minutes as they faced one another, the tension in the air growing exponentially.

At last, when it was apparent that Vivienne would not relent, The Iron Bull rolled his eye and growled in annoyance. " _Ahrgh_ ,  _c'mon_ , Krem," he waved a muscly arm at his lieutenant, getting to his feet. "Skinner, pick up Dalish and get her off to bed. We're packing it in, boys." He turned to go, looking back long enough to salute Varric in perhaps the most sarcastic and dismissive gesture qunarily possible.

Madame de Fer turned and sat with her hands folded on her lap, her posture poised and pristine against the back of the lifeless wooden chair like a red rose vining its way up a rotten tree stump. One thing was for sure: she was definitely not here for the local comforts.

He had dreaded being caught in the act since he had taken up drinking again, constantly jumpy and looking over his shoulder whenever he'd indulged in a sip or two here and there, but he had been so exhausted that he'd forgotten utterly to watch his back. Maybe there was a still chance he could talk his way out of it. "…Okay, so my cohorts  _may_  have called it a night, but I didn't come here to drink, if that's what you're –"

The barmaid sauntered over with a tray of twin pitchers, delivering the rounds he had ordered at the bar. The young woman caught his attention with her dreamy gaze. "Ice cold ales for the man in the song," she winked, setting the beverages on the table, "and a pint of bitter to wash it all down."

Humiliated, the dwarf buried his head in his hands and tried to become invisible.

"Pardon?" Vivienne raised a single finger at the waitress, eyeing her stained apron and homely dress, yet keeping her comments to herself. "Does this…  _establishment_  serve wine at all?"

She made a deep, ridiculous bow. Word had spread of Vivienne's nomination among the Andrastians, and many throughout Skyhold had taken to treating her as one would a crowned Divine, much to Vivienne's pleasure. "We do. Red or white, your Worship?"

The question seemed to displease the enchantress, as if the girl had spoken out of ignorance. "May I perchance have a Val Chevin vineyard? The brand is inconsequential. 9:10 would be ideal, but I may be persuaded by anything up to 9:30 – so long as it isn't 9:21, of course," she smiled, brushing the back of Varric's hand on the table as if sharing in a joke of some upper-class variety.

Her glittering eyes rested on the poor woman, who stood motionless out of confusion. During a long, awkward pause, wherein Varric shifted his elbow on the table and cupped his hand over his mouth so as not to audibly cringe at the proceedings, the smile gradually faded from Vivienne's face. Sighing, she waved slightly in dismissal, obviously accepting the limitations of the tavern due to location and/or incompetence.  _"Red,_ please, darling _._ And do add it to the dwarf's tab, _"_ she said at last, her tone dripping with disappointment. Their server made an instant about-face, heading back to the bar in search of something suitable.

In all the time that her drink order had bought him, Varric hadn't thought up anything passable as an excuse for his presence here. He stared at his drink, yearning to down it in seconds to alleviate the tension flooding his body, but he couldn't just drink  _in front of the Iron Lady._ Not after what she had said on the balcony just before setting out for Val Royeaux.

Lowering his slackened hands to the table in defeat, he admitted to her, "I got nothing."

"You  _have_  nothing," she corrected the author's grammar. "Or, alternatively, you haven't  _anything_. Either works for your current situation."

"Right." Leaning forward with a slight wince, he opted for a white lie to cover his tracks. "Listen, Iron Lady, this isn't a regular thing for me. I'm not…" He shrugged and bit his lower lip hard, hoping the right words would come to him by some miracle. "…Well, I've been clean since we talked, but with all the stress from Cassandra and the red lyrium and Corypheus looming over our heads…" Stealing a glance at her face, he could tell that he was only digging his grave deeper.

Sighing out the tension, he leaned back to study her features. "…Okay. So, how long have you known? Be honest."

"Perhaps you're the one whose honesty we should be focusing on," Vivienne stated, although there was a marked lack of judgment in her tone, "or don't you agree?"

He could only nod in response. She had him, there. Sparing a glance around, he couldn't help but notice that the place had cleared out in the area immediately surrounding them, as if the pilgrims could sense trouble coming from this end of the dive. "Touché," he muttered, finding his voice again.

She leaned forward with no shortage of grace, pushing his pint toward him out of some semblance of mercy. "Drink, Varric, but only half," she instructed with a small wag of her finger.

He was tempted to break out his deck and deal a hand, curious of just how good at cards she was. But lowly pastimes like Diamondback or Wicked Grace weren't how the Iron Lady got her kicks. No, the game she played was remarkably subtle – and dangerous, to boot. Taking his pint by the handle, he watched her as he slowly raised the beverage to his lips.

"Bottoms up, darling," Vivienne smirked.

Varric sipped with all the caution of a man who suspected his drink had been laced with giant spider venom. Seconds passed as she observed him, her eyes only leaving him when the barmaid returned in another polite bow and presented her with a newly-dusted green bottle sans label and a simple – but at least clean – wine glass. Thanking and excusing the girl after she had uncorked it, Madame de Fer moved to pour out her first serving, but stopped short and scoffed at the warm temperature. With a simple touch from her manicured finger, condensation began to form on the outside of the bottle as she slowly chilled the wine to her liking. Tutting to herself, she raised a brow. "Must I do everything myself? Well, I suppose if one wants something done  _correctly_ …"

When he had at last downed half his bitter, he set the pint down and furrowed his brow at the enchantress. "I think I know what you're doing, Iron Lady," he stated, not quite as confident in the announcement as he had implied with his inflections.

"You mean this?" she asked, gesturing toward the chilled wine innocently. She wrapped her fingers around the stem of her glass and held it to the mouth of the bottle, pouring at an angle, the dark reds pooling alluringly. "Sharing a drink with a friend in a dingy, rat-infested tavern? 'Slumming it,' as they say?"

He smirked and laced his hands together, his elbows on the table for support. "Oh, you're good," he laughed under his breath. "Let me just say that I'm honoured to watch you work your magic on me."

"Why,  _thank you,_  Varric," she smiled, sipping from her glass. The face she made was priceless while she forced herself to swallow the rank liquid. Her voice, once smooth, was grating as she tried to recover. "An unexpectedly high compliment coming from a man of your… stature."

He actually laughed aloud at that, either the alcohol or the sleep deprivation causing him to feel loose and careless. Rubbing a hand over his face to stave off his exhaustion a bit longer, he confessed, "Alright, I lied. I have no idea what you're up to and the suspense is killing me."

Placing a hand over her heart, Vivienne looked away and pretended to be scandalised. "Shall I mark the date on my calendar? Varric Tethras, renowned author and Thedas' most enigmatic dwarf, has  _lied_  to me. I feel quite privileged, as it must be  _such_  a rare occurrence." With a flick of her hand, she produced a small vial and uncorked it with her long thumbnail, spilling the clear contents into his mug.

His eyes flew wide as he watched it pool through his tall mug. "Whoa. What the hell was that?"

She took another leisurely sip before frowning at him, the vial gone before he could look up again in astonishment. "I beg your pardon?"

" _That,"_  he blurted waving at his drink. "Did you just – Why, Iron Lady, are you trying to  _drug_  me?"

"Nonsense! If I wished to poison you, Varric, I would never have let you observe my actions. What a terrible waste of perfectly good poison that would be." Raising her glass, she clinked it against his pint, taking one last sip before she could take it no more. Nudging the window open, she lifted her wine glass and spilled the remainder of her rancid drink outside. The Chargers, whom had moved to sit against the outer wall, let out a cry of outrage before she closed it again, ignoring their jeers. "Now, drink. My chambers are calling me."

He hesitated, not knowing what the hell to do. There was a chance he could fake a sip, but if she was watching for any changes in his demeanour, he wouldn't know what to fake in the way of symptoms. That vial could have contained  _any_  number of things… But as she continued to sit across from him with all the patience of a saint, the dwarf realised he had no other choice but to comply. Madam de Fer had caught him in a lie, and now he'd have to own up and pay whatever price she deemed suitable.

With that, he took up his mug, drank a modest mouthful –

He instantly turned around, spraying the empty table behind him. His tongue registered nothing but a disgusting flavour of Maker-knew-what. Nothing stung him outright, but a wash of varying tastes flooded his mouth: sea water, mould, piss, fish stink, and even strange perfumes assaulted his nasal cavity. Varric gurgled, his stomach performing somersaults that would make a trained acrobat pale.

"Do not assume that I was blissfully unaware you had fallen back into old habits," Vivienne said with a levelled calm, turning his stubbled chin toward her again. There was care in her eyes as she spoke, taking him aback and causing him to forget the tirade he had been so close to spouting off. "Keep this in mind, my dear: I know  _all_  that goes on in Skyhold. I see all. And what I do not see with my own keen eyes, my Left Hand sees. She has spies everywhere, and by extension, so do I. They work for  _me_ , now." She effected a genteel shrug, as if further clarification came secondary. " _And_  the Inquisition, of course."

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Varric stared at her, stunned into silence and still fighting the odd sensations permeating his mouth.  _Was that last flavour Fereldan mud or wet dog? Was there even a difference?_

Seizing the opportunity that his rare instance of speechlessness provided, she spoke up again. "For the record, I'm not overly concerned that you've been drinking socially on occasion. What  _truly_  concerns me is that you've been once again drinking yourself sick from worry. You're neglecting your own needs, and I believe I've made my opinion on that matter quite clear in the past. And yet, just when I thought you had at last given in to common sense and were off to your quarters for much-needed rest, I witnessed you walking right up to this watering hole to drown your sorrows." Leaning back against her chair, she sighed in motherly disappointment. "I hate to take such drastic measures, but it was for your own sake."

Glaring, he at last found his voice, grating and raw as it was. "You know, I'm getting pretty tired of everyone telling me what's in  _my_  best interests."

"I've no doubt," she agreed. "Just as Lady Cassandra was not entirely fond of having little say in making her own decisions, as of late. I'm sure you remember her saying as much, although you didn't seem to mind intervening regardless."

"I only did that because I  _care_ about her!"

Vivienne shot him a look of sheer surprise. "Varric, I hope you aren't insinuating that I have acted with no care for you."

He raised a finger in warning, casting her remark aside. "What did you just dose me with?"

"Nothing so  _permanent_ , darling," she shook her head. "For the next two to three days until the effects wear off, whenever alcohol passes your lips, you will find the taste rather unpalatable, to say the least. This should leave enough time for Empress Celine to respond for our call for aid. Until then, you'll simply have to make do with other vices."

He smirked at that, leaning forward. "You know, not all people drink for the taste – especially dwarves. If that's the only downside you've got," he raised a brow at her, "I think I'll just hold my nose. Thanks for playing, though."

The smirk turning the corner of her mouth told him she hadn't finished listing the effects that her concoction would have on him. Slumping back, he braced for more.

"Yes, I anticipated as much. In that case," she revealed, "then you shall have not only the wretched taste to contend with, but an instantaneous and severe headache. You're familiar with those which typically accompany all excessive drinking, surely."

Varric's jaw dropped. "Andraste's ass, none of the fun  _and_  a blaring hangover?" She had really pulled the rug out from under him this time…

"No joy, I'm afraid. At least for now." With that, Madame de Fer rose from the table, standing before him with her hands clasped over her middle. He looked up in time to witness her releasing a small smile of sympathy his way. "Ale is a poor medicine, Varric. I have known far too many acquaintances to drink themselves into an early grave all because it seemed a better alternative than whatever personal trials they faced. Must I remain silent as I watch you do the same?"

She tilted her head to the side knowingly as he closed his eyes. "Oh, my dear Varric… The Maker has a  _good_  life in store for you. Lucky is the man who knows his calling. Few realise their own. You have a gift, a career, a woman who admires you, a cause for which to fight. Do not trade all that glistening gold for mere pennies… Please, do yourself a favour and rest for the night. You're no good to me dead, much less poor Cassandra."

He swallowed hard. As she turned, the white train of her skirts brushing the tavern floor, Varric raised his misting eyes to her one last time before the night was over. "Hey…"

Madame Vivienne de Fer, First Enchanter of Montsimmard's Circle of Magi, craned her neck to look back over her shoulder. "Yes, my dear?"

"…Thanks. I think I needed to hear that… You're a good friend."

The Iron Lady smiled gently and stepped forward. "Not at all," she replied as she made her way out of Herald's Rest.

**~oOo~**

She rounded yet another corner in a maze of nothing but right-angled turns, her purposeful steps echoing off the cold stone surrounding her everywhere she looked. Her gleaming Seeker armour caught the light of glittering white mage sconces and reflected it back at the walls, creating a spectacle that subconsciously brought her to sway her hips a touch wider, if only to make the view more dazzling to behold.

To her confoundment, there wasn't a single set of stairs in this mage tower. It seemed to go on forever in a tidy square, and a bolt of suspicion flitted through her mind that she had stumbled upon some Maker-damned joke set up by the templars at her expense. Although the Templar Order's dislike for Seekers of Truth had no direct proof, it was generally accepted by her fellows as an open secret, everyone from Knight-Commanders to junior initiates making no attempts to hide their hostility and growling tones whenever a Seeker was assigned to investigate rumours of crime, complaints regarding abuse of power, or falling out of step with Chantry doctrine. And her assignments were beginning to pile up, taking her from her duties as the Divine's Right Hand. Something terrible was escalating behind the high walls of Thedas' mage towers, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it like the Knight-Captain in her new favourite novella…

But Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast hardly batted an eye at the templars' discontent for all she represented, standing firmly with pride while dressed in the armour of her faith. So long as she walked in the Maker's light, nothing would tear her asunder –

As she passed a deep, nondescript alcove, a hand reached out from the darkness and yanked her roughly from the endless path. In an instant, her sword was drawn against her attacker, whom she elbowed in the gut and kneed in the face. The man collided with the wall and slid down in a breathless groan, his hands raised in surrender.  _As if a mage with his hands in the air is any less a threat,_ she snarled, pointing the business end of her sword at the base of his throat.  _"How dare you touch me, mage?"_ she seethed, glaring at the robed figure all but cowering before her.

"Well," he managed after catching his second wind, " _this_  is a fine how-do-you-do, Cassandra."

She recognised his sarcastic tone on the spot, her eyes adjusting finally on his long brown hair and smiling green eyes. Dropping her weapon, her sword clanged noisily to the stone floor and, heedless of her heavy armour, she straddled the man, enveloping him with a fervent kiss. He returned it with a grunt of pleasure, running his hands over her long, silken hair.

" _Never_  jump out at a Seeker like that, Galyan," she fought to breathe, her heart pounding like drums of war against her chest plate. "You will get yourself killed."

Regalyan D'Marcall sighed slowly, the tail end of his breath catching on a light chuckle. "Ooh, yes, madam," he acquiesced with a mischievous grin. "How careless of me! Have mercy, kind lady!"

She kissed him again, the soft sounds of their lips mercifully subdued from anyone who might hear. "Be  _serious_ ," she insisted, pressing against him in fervent desire. Maker, she had missed this man.

" _One_  of us has to loosen up," he whispered, tracing a light finger behind her ear. She shivered, her nose brushing his in the dark. "I heard from the First Enchanter that a Seeker had arrived, and I prayed it would be you. Oh, Andraste, I'm so glad I caught you before you could disappear again."

She smiled while his mouth struggled to find purchase on her neck. As much pride as she had wearing it before, her armour was now getting in the way of her more impulsive nature.

His warm hands returned to her hair, removing the leather thong she had used to tie it back and letting the luscious locks fall over his face. Breathing deeply, he marvelled at her scent. "Mmm, you smell of long sweetgrass and wild embriums. Sometimes I miss the outside world, you know.  _And_ your beautiful hair, of course."

Without hesitation, Cassandra pulled her emergency sidearm from her belt – a dagger of no more than half a foot in length – and grabbed a fistful of her flowing black strands, slicing the razor-sharp blade as close to her scalp as she could manage.

Regalyan gasped in shock. "What have you done?! Cass _andra_  –"

She took the leather thong from his slack hand and tied the keepsake off to secure it. "It's yours," she offered it to him bluntly. "I plan to cut it. I just haven't found an opportunity, yet." At his look of distress, she added, "It's too long and gets in the way of my helmet."

The mage took the proffered lock of hair from her grasp, braiding it quickly to better hide it away. "I know you enjoy spontaneity, but  _warn_  me next time." Admiring her gift, a gentle smile curved the corner of his mouth in an alluring expression. "It looks lovely, all pleated up like this. What a shame to lose it all…" The other hand reached up to help frame her face with the rest, and he studied her as if committing the sight to memory.

She frowned to herself, leaning left to peek around the corner. Nothing but dark hallway greeted her for miles unending. "Shouldn't the templars be on patrol?"

His body rocked in silent mirth beneath her. "I told them I spotted a mage and templar 'fraternising' down in the lower corridors." At that, Regalyan began tugging at her belt in invitation. "Little do they know, eh…?"

Her blush climbed out from beneath the polished steel and engulfed her face, setting her alight. If the scheduled patrol was diverted, then…

"Lying mage," she smirked in jest, her hand drifting down over the blue robes covering his chest.

" _Yes_ ," Regalyan nodded emphatically. "I'm a no-good, lying mage. I  _must_  be controlled. Teach me a lesson I won't soon forget."

She fought her bubbling laughter, stifling it as best she could so the noise wouldn't carry too far. " _Enough_ ," Cassandra sighed, climbing off his lap stiffly. Sheathing her sword, she shook her head, trying to brush the clouds from her mind. "I've stayed too long. I received a summons from Divine Beatrix this morning –"

"Oh, that old bat probably doesn't even remember summoning you.  _Stay_  for a while," the mage suggested all too casually. "Trust me, I know this area like the back of my hand. The templars won't be back for ages…"

What he'd said just then struck her as indescribably strange. Most of what was happening felt familiar in an odd sort of way, but this belittlement of the Divine and cavalier attitude was extremely out of character for him. Her eyes moved over him as he stood before her in a manner that didn't feel quite right.

"Dementia or no, I am the Divine's Right Hand, and for you to speak so cruelly of her borders on blasphemy." Her head tilted as she studied him in a critical light. He looked just the same as he always had, though something between them felt estranged, and the tension in her body mounted on itself. He had never tried to keep her from the duties of her station before. "What is this? Why are you acting so selfishly all of a sudden?"

Regalyan never flinched at her accusatory tone, his charming, roguish smile returning to put her at ease. "Is it wrong of me to be selfish when I so rarely get the chance to be with the love of my life?"

He reached a hand out toward her own, clasping her fingers as if they were a cherished possession. Then his grip tightened, locking on her to keep her in place. The brush of lengthy claws unseen against her wrist sent her adrenaline rushing.

"Stay, Cassandra," his voice lowered to a mere whisper, leaning closer still. "We won't have another chance like this again… Don't you want this day to last forever? We can make that happen, right here…"

He kissed her cheek so tenderly that for a time, she wondered what might happen if she gave into the illusion. The moment at play now was among the last she had made with Galyan. Then, she had been convinced to stay for the five minutes it took them both to reach the crest of their passions. Then, she hadn't needed this much convincing, for the risk of being caught with her lover mid-act had been too tempting a challenge to let pass. In reality, she had embraced him wholeheartedly and enjoyed all the spoils it had come with.

But this was not reality at all, was it…?

A deathly chill climbed up her spine, though she tried to maintain a level of calm. "No, we can't," she swallowed past her grief. "We can never go back to how it once was. You know this."

His hand moved to drift over the curve of her hip, cupping her waist and bringing her closer. "What's stopping you…?"

Turning her nose to brush against his, Cassandra resisted the sting of tears as she lightly touched the small patch of hair on his chin.  _Maker, every detail is so real…_ Still, it couldn't be…

She replied in a mere whisper, at last ready to sever the dream: "Your death stopped many things between us, Regalyan…"

To catch a demon out in a lie was not as simple as smiting a spell. They were tenacious in their motives, and this creature was no different from those she'd encountered before. It was a misstep only, and she knew the line of attack would change to fit the evolving narrative. The ruse wasn't declared over until threats were made.

"And I'll forgive you for letting me die, if you stay with me now. Please, don't leave me again… Bad things happen to me when you go, or didn't you know?"

She took her hand back, stepping away in revulsion. All at once, Varric's voice floated back to her from the comfort of another memory so painfully distant that it robbed her of breath.  _It's not really him,_ he had said to her, his hand rubbing her bare back on the bed,  _because if he was even half as decent as you say he was, the real guy wouldn't've given you hell for something that wasn't your fault…_

It was as if the demon could read her thoughts, Regalyan's face turning down in a scowl of jealousy. "Cassandra, how quickly you forget me. I thought you cared," it spat coldly, attempting to guilt her into remaining its toy. "Was I nothing to you that you could toss me aside for another so soon?"

… _Especially if he really cared about you._

Stepping back, she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her sword and gripped it hard, glaring at the desire demon with all the malice it had rightly earned. Still, despite knowing its true nature, she could not bring herself to harm the thing while it wore the face of her tragic late lover. "I will never forget Regalyan. I will  _always_  care for him. He was kind and brave, and I miss him dearly… But he would never blame me for what happened at the Conclave, even if I happen to blame myself." She moved to the hall and walked on, searching for a way out of the trap with determination. "You  _failed_ , demon," she called, her voice echoing with coldness off the stone. "You could never be the man he was."

"…So, that's how you wanna play it, Seeker? Alright, I can adapt. Try this on for size."

Cassandra's eyes rounded as she spun on her heel, the drastic change in tone and mannerism catching her off-guard. Surely enough, the demon had shrunk to a modest height, its shoulders and jaw now broadened, hair lightened, clothes utterly changed. In every conceivable aspect, the illusion of Regalyan the mage was gone, replaced by a sauntering, smirking dwarf she knew all too well.

The demon taking Varric's form shrugged in just the same way, raising his hands as if welcoming her back into his arms. "Does this make it any easier for you, baby?" he asked through a knowing grin.

She only had to think for a handful of seconds before her boots carried her toward him, purpose in her every step to take full advantage of the opportunity presented. "You have no idea how easy," Cassandra rasped as the steel hissed from her scabbard.

Before the demon had a chance to react, she ran him through with her sword, blood dripping from her crimson blade at his back. She felt lightheaded from the perverse high that killing him gave her, the quick pulse of blood crashing through her ears. In her arms, the demon gurgled, red life spilling from its lips.

Varric's lips.

The Seeker chuckled ruefully, pulling the blade free and kicking the lifeless body to the floor. "Thank you." Wiping the blood spatter from her nose, she turned around and took a deep breath, the catharsis behind the vengeful act motivating her to press on. "That was oddly satisfying."

**~oOo~**

After gifting two nearby tables with the undrunk rounds he'd ordered, he had sneaked out the top exit to avoid paying his tab and made his way to his quarters in pure darkness.

At first, Varric had thought he was hallucinating, but sure enough, his door was unlocked. It took several seconds longer than it ought to have to remember that he hadn't left Cassandra the key to lock up after him when he'd left for the Black Emporium, and it took even longer to light the candles and register that his room, once a dumpsite, was now utterly pristine.

Minutes of panic ensued at fearing he had been robbed, the chaotic order to his personal space violated by some unknown, malevolent force. Eventually, he realised with a jolt that everything was still present, and merely put away. Someone had gone over his room with precision and sorted out all his junk. "Mt. Parcel" was currently stored beneath his bed, and he was surprised by how it all fit so snugly. He had a "new" chest of drawers for his clothes, and his extra armour was stored in the chest just beside it. Whoever had done it had even gone the extra lengths to dust every surface, sweep up the crumbs, and clear out the cobwebs. His reading specs were in their leather case next to the candles, and his letters –

Wait. His  _letters_. His  _dead_  drops, his  _bookkeeping_  records, his  _story_  notes, his  _correspondence_. They were supposed to be on the sideboard where he'd left them, but instead, only the vase he'd shifted to the floor to make room the night Cassandra had slept over was there. Shaking his head in disbelief, he pulled out the parcels from under the bed frame and dug through his folded clothes in a desperate search. Varric turned the place upside down, flipped the clumpy mattress, trying to think all the while where they had gone. At last, once the room looked relatively normal again, he sat on his bed, his throbbing head in his hands.

 _Cassandra must've tidied up,_ he realised with a rueful chuckle at his own sore luck. Knowing her, she had found a spot to safely hide his work – even, as it now turned out, from him. If she didn't wake up from this damned coma, she would never be able to tell him where she had laid them…

If she didn't wake up…

_Yeah, the papers are the least of your worries, old man._

It would almost be funny if it wasn't scary as all shit.

On instinct, Varric reached to his right and grabbed up the pillow she had used during her stay, hugging it to his chest and burying his nose there just to catch her lingering scent. Barely any remained, though, the sweet notes of sweat and skin having faded nearly to nothing. He couldn't bear the thought of sleeping here when she was so far from him, up in the Tower Room going through absolute hell. Varric gripped the pillow tighter, wishing it were her that his strong arms enveloped instead, cursing the fact that he could do nothing to protect her from this nightmare. If anything, even if she wouldn't know he was there, having her close somehow would give him enough peace of mind to sleep…

And barring the idea of breaking into the Inquisitor's quarters to hold Cassandra while he gradually went as insane as Bartrand, there was only one other option if he wanted to feel close to her.

And so it happened that Varric blew out the pillar candles and walked back out into the night on a winding course for the Seeker's room.

This was a point of vulnerability for the merchant prince. He didn't want to be spotted by night owls or on-duty guards along the way, somewhat ashamed of himself for going through with this in the first place. Would she appreciate him entering her room without asking? No. Could he ask for her permission now? No. Did he need to feel the touch of her belongings, the softness of her bed, the warmth of her sheets? Oh, Andraste's ass, yes… Yes, he most certainly did. Just the thought of going without it all ached him to death…

Sneaking soundlessly over the battlements and through abandoned rooms to disguise his route, at last he had arrived at her door. He had gotten away with it like a thief in the night, stealing away to the one place in this damned fortress that could offer some semblance of comfort. Through the silence, Varric pressed his forehead against the chilled wood marking her door, sighing hard enough to drown out the pounding of his racing heart. He could just imagine her on the other side, polishing her armour by the light of her oil lamp, reading trashy literature in a steaming bath by the fire, or humming a soft tune to herself without realising how sweet she was to listen to… He hit his knees, the ghosts of tender memories haunting him.

The Seeker wasn't here, anymore.

He knew, with heartbreaking clarity, that the room on the other side of this door would be as cold and empty as he was.

If this whole experience was just a story he was writing, this would be right about the spot where Varric would fade to black and move on to something else more conducive to the narrative. Another scene, another perspective, maybe even some kind of revelation that would send the hero racing off to save the day and wrap everything up in a neat little bow. But reality was never that easy. The scene had faded, yet there he remained, contending alone with a hollow space in his lungs where her breath should be. And it wounded Varric so wholly that he felt genuinely frightened at how attached he had become.

Time passed by as he sat staring down the stone walkway, wondering how he was going to make it through this ordeal if Cassandra didn't. He'd lost so much that was important to him from before, and not drinking their faces away to burn them from his mind forced Varric to confront the idea of potentially losing the last real connection he had going for him. He hated the silent dread it created, the lumps in his belly that trapped in the sick tension until there was nothing to do but panic. Everything about it was nauseating to face with a sober mind. All he had fought for was slipping from his grasp, and worst of all, nothing more could be done about it until Orlais got off its ass and responded to their inquiries.

 _Ugh_ , he could hear Cassandra griping in his head,  _my life once again in the hands of nobles with no sense of urgency? Maker help me._

Out of nowhere came an unexpected voice, causing the dwarf to jump at the break in silence. Lifting his eyes to the shadows, he witnessed an old friend saunter toward him, clearly surprised to see him sitting there as well.

"Oh… Hey, girl," he managed to smile despite his dark thoughts. Pausing, he finally noticed the offerings hanging from the cat's clenched jaws: a pair of slain mice she had come in the dead of night to deliver. She clawed at the door, expecting an answer from within and receiving none.

For Varric, Mouse's presence took the sting out of the moment, which was just the motivation he needed to pick himself up off the floor. He groaned and rolled to his knees, finding his trusty pin and picking the lock in the dark as he listened intently for the clicking of falling tumblers inside. One by one, the mechanisms clicked into position, and it wasn't long before he heard the lock disengage. Standing up to his full height, he glanced down at the cat with a smile and cracked open the door, letting her have the honour of passing through first.

The fatigued dwarf locked the door behind him, sealing himself inside again so the door appeared untampered with. The Seeker's room was frigid, just as he had anticipated, but he felt more at ease at the familiar sight – or what he could see of it from the limited light of her window. Trusting that her room was always kept immaculate, he walked with confidence to the window and drew the curtains shut, plunging them into total darkness. Mouse mewled more clearly now, having dropped her precious cargo off somewhere. Tentatively, he stepped toward the nightstand and found the oil lamp, turning the wick and lighting it after a few quiet moments.

It was plain to see that Mouse had found her spot for the night, the creature sprawled in the dead centre of the bed. "Sheesh. Fine, suit yourself." Craning his neck, he found the two hapless creatures the cat had culled lying still beside the hearth, exactly where Cassandra would have most probably seen them if she had been here.  _No such luck_ , he thought, shaking his head and deciding against lighting the fireplace. Although it'd be warmer and more welcoming if he did, it was better not to attract attention by sending smoke up the chimney.

With a thoroughly exhausted sigh, Varric unbuttoned and shrugged off the top layer of his travelworn clothes, kicked off his boots, and pulled the blankets back.

After climbing blissfully between the soft sheets like cool clouds over his heated skin, he reached over to shut off the oil lamp and laid his tired head down on Cassandra's pillow.

Heavy lids had barely fallen over his bloodshot eyes before the familiar scent of Cassandra's soft linens put him well and truly to sleep, the furry companion just behind him resettling in a ball against the small of his back.

If only he had known what he would soon sleep through, Varric might've held off just a few hours longer…

**~oOo~**

Nothing had come from the west, yet. Not a word of reply or explanation for the delay.

By the Maker, where were her ravens? They had been trained to return if their targets couldn't be located, so what was taking them so long to take their flight paths back home?

In the dawning hours, the Spymaster dragged herself out of bed to check the rookery and count heads. She was down by two, their large cages stocked with worms and grains and the doors left ajar in the event of their arrival. She was tempted to send another, only hesitating at the thought that her birds were too valuable to risk. In the end, she fed and watered her messengers, choosing the best among her scouts to spread a bulletin to the rest of her agents in Orlais whom could have encountered the ravens or found their carcasses to bring word to Skyhold of their whereabouts. If their pleas for aid were intercepted, then their hopes for Cassandra might be dashed upon the rocks.

Frustration mounted within her after yet another night of waiting. Yes, the War of the Lions was winding down, and Celine could be busy with any number of things an Empress might have to contend with in a shattered, formerly war-torn country. Still, the idea that Leliana would have to come to terms with the very real possibility that Cassandra was fighting a losing battle was too much. And so it was that she had gone to the gardens to clear her head, to think, to strategize – and, as a last resort, to pray for guidance.

 _As if the Maker cares at all for our plight_ , she thought bitterly. When had He ever intervened to save His children? She had witnessed more death and betrayal after surrendering her life to Him than she had even as a bard assassin in her youth.

As she wandered the potted plants along the perimeter wall, her hands crossed over her chest defensively, she kept her eyes rooted on the grass at her feet, watching the dew collect on the toes of her boots and the cuttings stick to the blackened leather there. The chill was bracing, numbing her exposed fingers, and she drew her cloak around her to contain body heat. She ignored those present at this hour: a pilgrim up early and enjoying a moment's peace with his morning coffee; Madame Vivienne quietly conversing with Mother Giselle, likely after the woman's allegiance to the Chantry she planned to build during her coming rule; young Kieran racing from the far room at the rear of the garden beside the chapel, a blue glow illuminating his back –

Leliana only realised she had gasped after heads had turned her way, all the while watching with wide eyes as he opened the door leading to the quarters he shared with his mother. "What in the Maker's…?" With her peripheral vision trained on the suspicious glow, the former lay sister immediately moved to follow the boy, intent on seeking answers.

"Mother," she heard Kieran call in a frantic whisper, "wake up!"

A small stirring from within, followed by a groggy groan. " _Mmm_ … Kieran, go back to sleep. 'Tis not even sunrise."

"No, Mother, I –"

"What is it?" A rustle of bedclothes. "Have you suffered a dream?"

"No. I don't have the dreams, anymore, remember?"

"…Ugh. Yes, of course,  _now_  I remember."

"Get up! You must come see. Something is happening."

At the sounds of tossed blankets, Leliana stepped forward and stood in the doorway. There, Morrigan was shoving off the covers in frank aggravation, pulling on her black boots with the sort of restless sigh only a mother could express. Noticing the figure in the doorframe, her one-time companion looked up with birdlike eyes, squinting through the fog of sleep to make out her silhouette against the pinkening sky. "Leliana? Should you not be  _elsewhere_ , scheming in secret?"

She smirked despite her grave unease. "I could ask the same, Morrigan. Do you still sleep in your clothes?"

"Do you  _sleep?_ 'Tis hardly the hour for –"

Exasperated, Kieran interrupted with an insistent tug at her arm. "Mother, come  _now!_ It's the eluvian!"

Morrigan paused only long enough to register the shock, not wasting time to tie her hair back as she followed Kieran out, Leliana joining them with her bow at the ready. Just as she had last seen it, the blue shimmer danced in glistening waves off the stone floor, the whole room aglow with ethereal light.

As they neared the scene, Madam de Fer put her conversation on hold and joined the trio, a look of mild interest taking form over her features. "Are we scheduled to receive a visitor, Sister Nightingale?" she asked in a mocking tone. "One would assume they would arrive more auspiciously than via an ancient relic we can hardly trust."

Morrigan ignored the veiled insult, her concentration understandably elsewhere while she followed her son to the room housing her prized  _elvhen_  artefact.

"I'm not sure," Leliana shook her head as the massive mirror came into view. To her old acquaintance, she added, "Having this eluvian in Skyhold is proving to be a breach in our security, Morrigan. This is unsafe."

"Yes, it seems we have  _many_  breaches with which to cope in these times, Leliana," the witch replied over her shoulder, walking up to the face of the artefact to study it further.

"Well, I won't tell the Commander if you won't," she grumbled, "but from now on, my scouts will guard this room in the event of another incursion."

Glaring Morrigan raised her voice in aggravation. "Know this: I will shatter the eluvian  _myself_  if Mother comes through to finish what she began. Your scouts are unneeded."

"It's not her, Mother," Kieran shook his head. When Morrigan turned to look at him for clarification, he merely shrugged. "I don't know how I know. I just do… It's someone else."

"This 'someone else' has apparently adopted the principle of being fashionably late," Vivienne sighed, giving the mirror a once-over as if it were a duchess adorning a dated gown in Halamshiral. "If they insist on wasting my precious time, then perhaps I shall spend it elsewhere."

"Remind me,  _enchantress_ ," Morrigan wondered aloud bluntly, "which of us specifically requested you to follow? My mind is drawing a blank."

Leliana didn't need to be a former bard to see the daggers the two were throwing with their killer glances, but luckily the tension hadn't the chance to culminate into more before the rushing sound of a gale-force wind swept through the small storage room, although no such winds stirred their garments. The blue tint of the eluvian lightened to a gradual, bright white, ending in a flash akin to a lightning strike that caused Leliana to shield her eyes.

When another rush of deafening noise resounded through the room, all was dark again. The Spymaster lowered her arm and saw…

" _Maker's Breath,"_  she uttered, the wind robbed from her lungs in a moment of shock.

Morrigan straightened, her posture thick with indignance.  _"You."_

The elderly dwarf broke out in a delighted smile behind his greying beard, craning his neck to look up at all the human faces surrounding them. "Well, this is  _quite_  the pleasant surprise! A room full of lovely faces all here to greet us! And very familiar ones, too, aren't they, my boy? Say hello to the kind ladies, Sandal."

"Hello," the dwarf at his side waved simply, falling silent again.

Practically needing to pick her jaw up off the stone floor, Leliana stood flummoxed and frozen, her body aching with a plethora of emotions all begging to be felt at once. Her surprise at their sudden appearance was great, as was her elation and relief, but above all, her eyes welled with a keen gratitude stemming from this sole event. If the Maker had sent the dwarves in their darkest hour… But she would deal with that later. All that mattered now was that those they had sent for had arrived.

And not a moment too soon.

"Ah," Bodahn Feddic cleared his throat and shifted with a touch of uncertainty, "I apologise  _unreservedly_  for the delay. Empress Celine sent word to us at one of her outposts, and we came just as soon as we packed our provisions." His voice held an older, gruffer quality than Nightingale remembered, and a worry line creased between her brows at registering just how swiftly age had caught up with him.  _Is he ill?_ she wondered, searching for tells in his body language.

"Have you come to peddle your junkwares in Skyhold?" Morrigan put in as she eyed the old dwarven acquaintances suspiciously. Despite her outward demeanour, Leliana detected a large swath of relief from the woman. Whether she was relieved not to find Flemeth standing before her or she was truly happy to see the pair again, there would be no knowing the truth. Regardless, Leliana's mood had brightened exceedingly. There was  _hope_  again, and it filled her to the brim with its shining light.

"I'm afraid there wasn't time to assemble the best of my quality goods," he smiled genially. "According to the Empress, the message the Inquisition sent was most urgent, and sending us here became priority number one. Luckily, my boy knew a shortcut and saved us a long trip eastward." Bodahn looked down, his eye caught by the child partially hidden behind his mother. The smile he wore broadened, his eyes shining. "And this must be  _your_  boy! My, that's a fine-looking lad you have, there. Just like his mother! What's your name, son?" he asked out of genuine interest.

"…Kieran," Morrigan's child answered evenly after a moment's hesitation.

" _Kieran_ ," he repeated. "A good, strong name. It suits you. This here is my boy, Sandal. Say hello to one another, boys."

"Hello," the two obeyed sheepishly.

Morrigan stepped forward and ushered the dwarves out of the room like a dog corralling mindless sheep. " _Away_  from my eluvian," she barked as the two made their way into the gardens post-haste.

"Madame Vivienne de Fer," Bodahn all but bowed her way as he passed by, "good to make your acquaintance again, as always! You're looking as ravishing as ever, my lady."

"Why, thank you, my dear," she chortled. "You must come speak with me later, when the timing is more convenient for you. Shall we say high tea this afternoon?"

"I'm shaking with anticipation, already, enchantress. Word on the road is that we have much to discuss," he nearly bowed again as she nodded in parting and made her way over the grass back to Mother Giselle.

Leliana was eager to lead the two into the hall, and she managed to gesture toward the door before the words halted in her throat at seeing the elder dwarf's smile radiate – in her direction, this time.

"And how could we forget the woman with the voice of an angel? Sister Leliana, the one and only! May I just say what a pleasure it is to see you looking so fine. I'm mighty confident in saying my son and I are the happiest dwarves in all Thedas right now just to be in your presence, again. Isn't that right, Sandal?"

Sandal smiled softly. "Yes. Happy!"

Now thoroughly beside herself, the Spymaster felt the heat rush to her cheeks, helping to fight the awful chill in the air. Maker, she hadn't blushed like this in  _years._ Seeing the two of them brought back memories of a simpler, more innocent time, and she couldn't help but feel the warmth of their company. "It's good to see you both," she admitted under her breath, glancing around to be sure no one was listening. "But as much as I'd love to hear word of your exciting travels, we have more important issues to discuss."

"Oh, of course! My boy and I will be glad to help the Inquisition however we can."

"Good. Please, come inside and warm yourselves while I make the necessary preparations." She took the steps hurriedly and pushed open the door, a rare smile stuck to her face that she couldn't hope to erase.

"Much obliged, much obliged. Come along now, Sandal," he waved his son up the stairs and through the doorway, Leliana's knees shaking with anticipation all the while.

"Thank you," Sandal said quietly when he passed her, his wide blue eyes transfixed on the Main Hall as they entered.

At that, she darted off to wake all those whom she deemed essential for the procedure to commence.

Soon, the Left Hand would once again be joined with the Right, and the world would be as it should.

As she raced through the rotunda and over the footbridge leading to the Commander's post in the early morning hours, Leliana sincerely hoped that they were not too late.

**~oOo~**

Only a handful of mages had been conscripted to help the dwarves, but there was no stopping the good news from spreading to every ear awake to hear it, and before long, the Inquisitor's quarters were fit to burst with everyone who was anyone within Skyhold's walls. In the spacious Tower Chambers above the War Room, a great mass of bodies had dutifully assembled, most keeping their distance from the patient on the bed and the ghostly whispers emanating from her, which grew louder with each passing minute as they wilfully exposed themselves to danger.

Everyone was here on this chilly morning. The Inquisitor sat at her desk, fingers interlaced below her nose as she almost stared right through Seeker Cassandra, unsure of whether to say her prayers – and if so, then where to direct them. Josephine paced along the balcony doors near the elf, occasionally distracting herself by searching over the titles on the bookshelf behind the desk. Standing in the far corner in shadow was Commander Cullen, armed for an assault and preparing himself as though he were about to take part in another Harrowing, his stomach lurching just the same now as it had then. Sera sat still on the floor by the fire, slouching against the surround, while Blackwall bunkered down beside Bull on the sofa, still trying to shake his dreams. The mages convened by the railing near the spirit, trading guarded glances and whispered wisdom – Solas, Vivienne, Dorian, Alexius, all of them speaking like a fluid fountain, flowing one after the other over a rocky plan.

Yes, everyone was here, Cole thought as he huddled on the top step. All except one, anyway.

It wasn't because they hadn't tried to talk to him, to tell what was happening here. No one could find him, his quarters unlocked and unlived in through the night. And after people pointed fingers to see who had seen him last, Cole had wandered to Cassandra's quarters to press his head against the door. It wouldn't let him in, wouldn't open when he asked it to. The lock said no, so he stayed outside, even though this was important to him. But even if he'd gone inside to try, without much sleep, Varric would wake as easily as Cassandra would have if shaken or spoken to. So, he decided to let him stay… It was better this way. Watching would only hurt him more.

"…Yes, I have just enough for the recommended dosage," Solas had nodded, catching Cole's careful gaze and pulling him from his thoughts. "Although what I presumed was an elixir appears to be far more effective as an intravenous injection."

"Whatever made you presume it was an elixir?" Vivienne whispered, her voice still carrying a note of derision. "If her stomach was destroyed by red lyrium, what good would swallowing anything do? Lady Cassandra hasn't taken solid food since slipping into this condition, need I  _remind_  you, Solas."

Dorian sighed in frustration. "Well, it's not like her veins are difficult to locate, at this late stage…" After a pause, he raised a brow before both lowered dangerously at the elf, his eyes twin slits of indignance. "If you're on the cusp of recommending I use blood magic to administer this  _purely_  on the basis that I'm from Tevinter –"

He fell silent as Alexius stepped forward, his palm opened in exasperation. "I will take care of this," he offered, waiting until the elf placed the needle in his hand. "I have experience in this area, Dorian."

Images flashed through Cole's mind when Dorian supressed a sudden mournful expression. A young man wasting away, blighted blood of black oil. Strength sapped and spent, cutting down a life too young, too soon. A memory burned out, stamped into the ground. All of it, all Cole had seen and felt in that moment, was gone in a blink, the time at hand coming back into focus.

Iron Bull shifted in his seat to peer as best he could down the darkened, shadowy stairwell. "The fuck is keeping these guys?" he growled under his breath.

"Yeah, where are they?" he heard Sera exclaim from where she sat on the floor, stewing in impatience by the lit hearth. "Thought you lot said those people we're waitin' on were 'ere. I don't  _see_  'em. They comin' or no?"

Blackwall's voice came next, sombre and grave as he sighed tiredly. "I spotted them on my way up. They were headed for the Undercroft, last I saw. Probably something to do with gathering necessary supplies."

Josephine turned in her pacing, an arm crossed over her chest, the other furiously rubbing fingers together. " _Please_ , I understand everyone's desire to see Lady Cassandra mended as  _soon_ as possible, but do not rush this process! Many risks  _must_ be weighed, I imagine, and we should  _allow_ these gentlemen time to…" Her thoughts jumbled in an instant, the heart inside her racing like it wanted to run far, far away. "...to, em…" Panic set in, her only visible reaction being to freeze in place, light eyes focused hard on the unconscious red figure lying on the bed.

Moved by his compulsion to help, Cole stepped forward – only to pause when movement stirred to his left. With a clearing of his throat, the would-be warden rose and made his way across the deep reds and greens of the rugs toward the Ambassador, fighting his worries to ward off her own. At the touch of his hand laid gently on her golden arm, Josephine's trancelike state was broken, noticing him for the first time. Upon seeing his concerned blue gaze, though, she relaxed, letting her breath out slowly. "I apologise," she dismissed her strange behaviour. "I will be fine. Please, have a seat, Blackwall."

" _Josephine_ …" His voice was calming, low and slow, wanting her heart to do just the same. He hadn't called her by title or position, but by her name alone. It was the first he had ever done so in her presence, and something between them had shifted because of it. "How long have you been up here?"

The Antivan's brow furrowed in misunderstanding, but eventually realisation dawned on her. "Oh. Yes, well, I was the first to arrive, some time ago. I wished to empty Cassandra's bedpan to preserve her modesty, and perhaps straighten the room for our guests."

He smiled out of view, lowering the volume of his voice to keep the moment private. Still, Cole could hear him better than the rest. "That was considerate. Always thinking of others, you are," he reassured her with a compliment, "but I'm more concerned about your welfare. If you're starting to hear things, maybe you should step outside for a bit."

Compulsively, her head began to shake in denial. The idea of leaving wasn't something the Ambassador liked. To her, it felt like defeat, like a tear in the seam of a gown too obvious to conceal in a roomful of judging onlookers. That she should falter now, before everyone, was an embarrassment beyond the perils of court. At least to her.

Seeing her throat move in a heavy swallow of guilt, Blackwall steadied a shaking hand and laid it over her own, managing to stifle his stammer long enough to speak. "Shall I escort you to your offices, my Lady?" he asked, gallant but gruff. He didn't need to say he would stay with her, that he would protect her should she need it. She could feel the truth as she looked at him, gratefulness growing in her eyes.

"...If it pleases you, Blackwall," she relented, sparing a glance at Cullen in the corner. "Forgive me, Commander. I should like to stay, but I think perhaps the red lyrium is having quite a negative effect on my mind."

"Not at all," he waved in polite dismissal, stepping forward. "Your health takes priority as always, Josephine. Blackwall," he addressed the man in parting, "see to it that a healer checks her over. And ignore any attempts she makes to downplay her symptoms."

"Yes, Commander. I'll do right by the Lady Ambassador; not to worry." The bearded warrior offered Josephine an arm, causing her to hesitate for the small sliver of a second.

Cole stared frankly, his interest piquing as those around him ignored the exchange, not knowing the importance of it all. It shined like silver, gleamed like gold, light breaking on two hearts in the coming dawn over an ocean of emotions. A touch of a smile at the corner of her lips, and she moved closer to him, resting her hands on the strength of his arm to steady herself, relying on his warmth as he led her with care toward the staircase.

The door creaked open from below, causing a stir within the room. As one, everyone stood upon hearing the ascending steps, watching as a hooded Nightingale crested the top of the stairs, who raised a set of determined eyes just as the exiting pair approached.

Her expression changed at seeing her friend, taking in the Ambassador's appearance. "Josephine? Are you –"

"I'm fine, Leliana," she raised a hand in assurance before resting it again on the warrior's arm. "I just need a moment to collect myself."

Accepting this explanation, Leliana's glance then drifted slowly to the man beside her, suspicious eyes giving him a sceptical once-over. Cole listened to the silent musings of the Spymaster, the dark defensiveness covering Blackwall like a shadow into which no light could permeate. Anger was bleeding from her eyes, sisterly instincts of protection swirling around her feet, but overall, observing the closeness between the two brought terrible levels of fear to her mind. Why was she so against the black wall shielding her friend from the red storm? Was it because his past was rainier…?

"Excuse us, Leliana," he spoke in a cordial tone, though his eyes conveyed something equally as defensive as those staring back at him. "Lady Josephine needs a bit of fresh air."

The Sister glared at his words, standing her ground for a while longer. Then she glanced toward the red wafts emanating from the Inquisitor's bed, her shoulders slumping as she realised there were more important matters to attend to. Without a word, she walked past them, laying a cautious hand on a single golden puff before they descended, leaving the Tower Room behind.

She took a deep breath to steady herself, positioning herself in the middle of the room for her brief announcement. "They're coming. Dagna will be up shortly with our guests."

The Inquisitor stood to make her way out from behind her desk. "Good," she nodded, her hands clasped over her abdomen in an attempt to control flighty nerves. "Let's get started."

"Inquisitor," Leliana turned to her with stiff shoulders, "removing red lyrium from an afflicted person has never been attempted, as you well know. If this doesn't go according to plan, there is a chance that Cassandra could meet the same fate as General Samson. We should raise protective barriers around the bed to contain… a large blast." She swallowed hard around the sticking words, but they had to be said. "Should we not succeed."

The room fell silent as everyone stared at her, Cole sensing the air grow heavy and fearful. As eager as they all were to see the Seeker healed, none were comfortable with being told to prepare for possibly losing her to this. With each passing second, they could be marching toward the hour of final goodbyes.

Not for the first time, Cole doubted his decision to let Varric sleep through it all. If he never got to see her alive again, what would happen to him…? Would his friend hate him for not trying harder…?

"In that case," the Commander suggested gravely, a hand on his hip as he stared critically at Cassandra's form, "we'd better restrain her. If the procedure takes a turn for the worse and we lose control, we may have a better chance of fighting her if she's immobilised."

"Yes, I suppose you're right, Cullen," Leliana agreed, a slow nod following his gaze to the opulent bed. "All right. You know what must be done."

Steeling himself, the ex-templar stepped toward the headboard and knelt, beads of sweat catching the fiery light of the red lyrium shard protruding from the Seeker's shoulder. Battling the hissing voices in his mind pitching in volume and threatening to break his mental resolve, he rummaged beneath the covers for the support beam. "If we can, ah… wind a rope between the bedframe and the mattress, Cassandra's weight should hold it in…"

His voice trailed off, momentary confusion bringing forth a crease between his brows. When he looked down and disappeared behind the lifted bedspread, Cullen hummed in surprise. "Oh. Well, that's convenient."

"What is it?" Dorian wondered quietly. As soon as his dearest friend raised both hands to her mouth to stifle a gasp, her face blushing in alarm, the Altus crossed his arms and glanced between the Inquisitor and the Commander of her armies, a sudden discomfort bringing forth a desperate need to clear his throat. " _Ahm_ , actually, Cullen, let's just pretend I didn't –"

"Someone must have had the same idea," he muttered regardless, just as oblivious as Cole was as to why the revelation garnered so much awkward tension. "There's a rather sturdy strip of fabric, here."

Interested, Bull approached the opposite side of the bed frame and hunted for the other end. Victorious, he exposed the long length of material. "Same over here. Fine black satin.  _Orlesian_ , by the looks of it." He turned a smiling eye to Solas, whose own blue slits were effectively averted to the floor, his entire demeanour rigid and struggling to maintain a professional aura.

"Ohhh, Creators," the Inquisitor whispered to no one in particular, shifting in embarrassment when Sera nudged her with a soft giggle.

Amused by the bewildering situation, the qunari turned the smile on Dorian with waggling brows, his expression falling after noticing the stern look his lover wore. All Cole could hear from the mage was a mantra repeated over and again, rapidly gaining in intensity:  _Drop it, Bull._ Now _. Drop it, do you_ hear _me?_ And the Iron Bull must have heard him, too, since he turned back to the bed with a shrug and said nothing more.

Before Cole could pry into their minds to understand the heated hurt, Cullen, equally as baffled, remarked, "Well, I suppose that… Oh.  _Oh_ , I – Maker's Breath." The Commander coughed and dropped the length of satin as if it had burned his palm, images crashing through Cole's clear mind all the while.

 _Greedy, naked in need, inviting eyes intent on endless torment, engaged in secret glories, entangled, entranced, in love. A love lost, left bereft, the festering wound unwound for all to see._ Fenedhis _, Cole, do not look at that –_

The spirit blinked and raised saddened eyes to his friends, the words expunged and erased in an instant. "It's gone," he breathed, dizzied from the sudden absence of those intense images. Then he noticed the eyes staring his way and realised with a start that he might have just made it all worse. "I-I'm… sorry," he stammered, hiding his face beneath the brim of his hat. He had said that all aloud. He hadn't helped.

Everything in this room was too bright, and it hurt to look at…

"No, that's… erm,  _good_ ," Cullen practically barked, banishing the images Cole had provoked. "It saves us the trouble of setting up a rig. Bull, can you tie a knot that will hold without injuring her?"

"Way ahead of you," the  _Tal-Vashoth_ grunted, already halfway through tying Cassandra down at the wrist.

It was impossible to tell whether the tension in the Tower Room tightened or released as the creaking of the lower door sounded, the clatter of several footsteps rising to the top to meet them. A strong sensation of ominousness drenched Cole in cold water, freezing him in place. Something – no, some _one_ – felt profoundly different from anyone he had ever encountered in this plane of reality. And that person, that energy, that…  _entity…_ followed Dagna and another bearded dwarf up the stairs and into the light.

He couldn't stop staring at the face of the feeling, the blue-grey eyes that were at first downcast before raising under the light of day to take in his surroundings. At once, the dwarf's penetrating gaze latched onto Cole in a simple smile that made everything look easy, and the spirit didn't know whether to wilt away or watch in wonder. It turned out that he could do both, immediately stumbling as he backed away to stand behind Solas and Vivienne, hiding himself from view. Even though he closed his eyes and fell instantly invisible to all the rest, when he peeked out from behind the enchantress' shoulder, he found to his shock that the dwarf was still staring at him as though nothing had changed at all, the same steady smile still stuck to his lips. And either shyness or fear, or both, caused Cole to cower for protection behind Solas.

Everything was loud. And nothing made a sound.

At least until they started speaking.

"Good morning to you, Inquisition," the other stranger waved an arm low. "Bodahn Feddic, at your humble service. And of course, this is my boy, Sandal."

The Inquisitor made her way across the rugs toward them, striking Cole with cold fright. He wouldn't hurt her, would he? He came to  _help…_ But they only smiled at her, the dwarf named Bodahn bowing to her after recognising her from the tales told on the roads of Orlais. "It's good to have you here," she greeted them warmly. "Thank you so much for coming."

"Hello," Sandal said with the same smile. The smile that would not evaporate or dissipate. The smile that floated around the room and stopped in Cole's direction yet again. But he wasn't looking at Cole.

He was looking right at Solas.

Bodahn moved to stand at the end of the bed to better take in the sight of the unconscious woman. "By the Ancestors! This must be the lady we've just heard all about… The poor thing. Quite the pickle she's gotten herself in."

"Old friend," Leliana offered with a wave toward the Seeker, "may I introduce Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, member of the legendary dragon hunting Clan of Nevarra."

"Yes, we've heard all the wondrous tales," the dwarf nodded, pressing his lips to a fine line. "Quite the remarkable woman. A shame about what happened to her, isn't it, my boy?" He turned to look at his son, his brow lowering in a concerned frown. "Sandal? What's gotten into you? It's impolite to stare."

Sandal's expression was animated, but Cole couldn't read him like he could everyone else. There was too much noise, too much to touch, too bright to look at for long. Then he raised a hand to point directly at Solas, the elf reaching a protective hand out of view to rest on the spirit's abdomen like a father shielding his only child from an unknown threat.

"He's  _here_ ," the younger dwarf breathed, tilting his head to the side in an otherworldly manner. "Now everyone will  _see_."

Bodahn came to stand behind him, laying comforting hands on his shoulders and steering him away. "I assure you, my boy, we can all see him just fine, but let's focus on the poor lady, now. She's in dire straits and needs your helping hand."

Sandal surrendered easily enough, now looking directly at Cassandra. All the hurt, the hate, the sorrow lying trapped inside the Seeker was visible to the curious little dwarf. Without the normal fear of red lyrium that the rest had developed, Sandal approached her and leaned over, drawn to the glowing amulet on her chest. It let out a spiritual cry at his touch that Cole recognised as an old song, and he found himself now watching the boy intently, his invisibility dropping away just as assuredly as his jaw fell.

Vivienne glanced back at Cole as he came into view again and, with a roll of her soft brown eyes, she turned and moved to Cassandra's side. "Shall we commence this procedure?" she asked with a sternness she tried to mask. As the day dragged on, the lyrium was making it hard for her to hide her distaste. It was making it hard for everyone to keep themselves under control, actually, all their thoughts assaulting his senses. Still, he couldn't help them unless they helped Cassandra first.

Dagna spoke up for the first time with a voice full of frightful fascination. "Well, we've talked over a plan and we have a few options in case things don't go off without a hitch. It's going to get a little complicated, arcane-wise, but Master Sandal will handle all the parts I don't really understand." She took a level breath and exhaled between pursed lips, shifting the pack of supplies to the ground so she could pull out Dorian's ancient runes, one in each hand. "Okay, first things first: Master Sandal, if you could unlock these old runes for us, we'll get this show on the road."

Once Sandal pulled himself away from the amulet he had been studying intensely, he happily took the objects from Dagna and scuttled off by himself to the far corner, the group observing him as he turned his back to them and sat cross-legged on the floor to begin working out of sight.

Bull and Cullen exchanged a look with one another over the bed, both still kneeling at either side, and promptly secured their weapons in their hands, sword and hammer ready to fight if necessary. Cole hoped that they wouldn't be, but the movement caused both Leliana and Sera to nock their arrows and roll their shoulder blades, positioning themselves at the bottom corners where a more convenient shot could be aimed to take Cassandra down, should she become a behemoth.

Obviously distressed by their reluctant, yet sworn duty to slay the Seeker should the time come, the Inquisitor shifted her weight from one hip to the other and then back again, her fingers curling and unfurling anxiously. Not knowing what else to do, she strode quickly past Dagna and came to stand beside the rest of the mages, Cole watching her marked hand twitch at her side in a desperate hope. She wanted to hold the other elf's hand, wanted him to cast a spell of sweet comfort over her as only he ever had. But the wall Solas raised in Crestwood stopped her from letting light fingers brush against his.

Solas' jaw clenched at her nearness, but not from anger or pride. There was a depthless, morose grave freshly dug in the centre of his spirit, his fist closing tightly as if he were truly grasping hers in reassurance, yet he wouldn't allow it to be real. This wasn't supposed to be real for him, but she had changed too much. The old elf didn't know how else to go on unless he let go… Yet no matter how he wanted to, he couldn't bring himself to forget her.

The only real thing Cole could offer them was to close his eyes and let compassion descend on his friends, and he felt their trembling breaths ease when the calmness penetrated through the terrifying fog that the waking world created…

Magister Alexius cocked his head toward his countryman, his wrinkled eyes glaring suspiciously toward the far corner of the room, where the strange boy called Sandal toiled and tinkered to himself. "Curious. He's a quiet little dweomer, isn't he, Dorian?"

Just as the fellow mage from Tevinter was about to reply, Cole shivered and shook his head. "No," he said breathlessly, "he  _really_ isn't…"

Dorian and Alexius turned as one to look at the spirit for much-needed clarification, though Cole could offer none. Honestly, he didn't know what to make of Sandal. The dwarf was more than just a dwarf. They were supposed to be quiet like templars, but this one was…  different. He was touched, unsevered, unfettered, a thousand torches lit to illuminate the darkest Deep Roads. But despite how bright he was, Sandal was no easier to see.

On the other side of his musings, Dagna smiled with genuine kindness at Bodahn and waved awkwardly. "Hey. Do you think Mas – I mean, Sandal would mind if I went over to observe him, or is that too much?" Her scholarly intrigue was palpable, her feet all but dancing toward the other dwarf. "I just – I mean, it'd be amazing to actually watch him work! I've heard so much about him and I'd love to learn anything I can."

Bodahn was calmer on the inside, more accessible. He had a kind, open heart, and his pride in his son was a force so sure that it could rival the power of any would-be gods. But he was protective of his only child, as any good father worthy of the title. "It's best you give him a moment to himself. My boy prefers everything _just_ the right way, you see; helps him work. Looking over his shoulder just puts the boy off, I'm afraid."

Her expression fell to one of disappointment. "Oh… Alright, then," she shrugged hesitantly, gutted that she had lost the opportunity. "I wouldn't want to upset him… Have you ever seen him enchant, before?"

"Oh, hundreds of times, but he trusts me, being his father, of course. Couldn't tell you the first thing about it, though. I'm just a lowly merchant by trade, so much of his enchanting business goes right over my head. I only try to be encouraging and keep him safe in this troubled world we all live in." Bodahn's gaze drifted from the dwarf beside him to the dwarf he held in his heart, a knowing sadness wrinkling the corner of his eyes. "I just hope he's learned enough to be independent, when the time comes."

Sera turned to shoot him a glance over her shoulder. "Wot time?" she asked in confusion.

The old dwarf sighed, trying to smile her way. "Everyone has a time, my friend. You feel it coming on swifter and sharper as you get older. Treasure these days; best advice I could give to a young one like yourself, miss."

"Are you ill, my dear?" Vivienne ventured a guess. She didn't like talk of aging. It only reminded her of what she would rather never confront, but she was well-acquainted with the dwarf and felt concern for him. "Perhaps we might find a way to cure you of whatever affliction ails you in repayment."

Bodahn didn't nod in a way that would confirm her suspicions. Rather, he acknowledged her question and answered instead with, "Unless you can grant the power of immortality itself, I'm sorry to say that nothing can prevent the inevitable road we all must walk, one day." He smiled gently, as if in apology. "But I'll thank you for being so kind as to ask. Excuse me, I should go check on the boy's progress." At that, he left the gathering and headed for the other side of the room to assist his son in any way he could.

Leliana cricked her head up to catch the attention of the mages. "Let's begin. Solas, raise wards on us and keep replenishing before they wear off. Dorian, perhaps you and Magister Alexius can work together to warp time around the bed. Most Holy," she nodded to Vivienne, eyeing the spot between herself and Sera, "if you could come to this end and chill the air around Cassandra, that may help suppress the red lyrium enough to remove it without much incident."

As they all moved to comply, Cole and the Inquisitor found themselves standing alone at the railing. Although she wanted to do something, the elf at his side found herself paralysed in place, shaking with a dread she didn't know was there all along. She was used to being the more useful of the group, all of them uniting under her banner, but as she watched the mages cast around her, she felt herself slipping. And so, she simply stood beside him, speaking silent supplications to the gods she no longer believed in just to feel useful.

It was in that moment when Cole looked down, a slow, ghostly hand inching toward her own. She needed him, and oh, how he had to help her. She followed his gaze and noticed the steady hand lying palm-open, looking up again to meet his eyes.

"Cole," she whispered, her soft voice trembling, "I don't know what to do… What if Cassandra doesn't pull through…?"

He blinked slowly and, with calm reassurance, took her hand in his. She was cold, her palm sweaty against his own, but he held it all the same. It didn't bother him. "She will be better, soon," he spoke to her alone, his spirit reaching in to cradle her own. "And you will, too…"

He stared at her, letting his words tuck her in like a thick blanket, a protection against the monsters trying to frighten her in the dark corners of heart and mind, and her eyes welled with unshed tears.

Tears for Cassandra. Tears for Varric. Tears for Solas. Tears for all that was and might one day be lost to her forever. But even if she might lose it all, even herself, he promised silently that she would never lose Cole.

No, she would never lose her Spirit. He would always look after her, even when no one else could.

She pressed her lips together, hoping to hold herself upright until this was over, but even so, she managed to mouth a "thank you" to him, a single tear falling like rain trailing down a windowpane. Her grip tightened to a gentle squeeze three times in succession, and not knowing what the gesture meant, he simply did the same back, causing her to smile despite herself. He'd made her feel better, and Cole felt whole for a while…

What followed was a blur of magic, mechanics, and mystery. There were no words as Sandal rose from the floor, guided by Bodahn back to the bed where Cassandra, the heart of the Inquisition, lay unconscious and dying. He climbed onto the mattress and stood straddling her form, a foot on either side of her waist, not a trace of fear to be felt from him. The wind in the room swirled, whipping their hair and clothes against them. The wards were set by Solas. The ice storm raged on from Vivienne's raised palms. Time hastened to bend the limits of logic and reality around Dorian and Alexius, the combined strength of their spells freezing the red lyrium waves in mid-air.

When glowing red eyes snapped open and crackled, blistered lips curling in a hellish roar, Cullen and the Iron Bull grabbed hold of her restraints and pulled low, forcing the blighted entity within to fall back against the pillows.  _Snarls, sneers, slander, sickness screaming a song to tear them asunder._ Undaunted, Sandal smiled that same strange smile and bent low over her chest, brushing the Holy Symbol of Andraste in a pattern that caused it to glow a piercing white light and the red lyrium to scream its hatred.

Sera began to panic, her heart racing with adrenaline, and Cole fulfilled his duty to keep his companions calm for Cassandra. It worked, and as she swayed, she and Leliana nodded to one another, each drawing their bows to train what would be non-fatal blows on the Seeker's struggling body.

The Inquisitor was clinging to him with both arms now, watching as the ray of light bursting from her friend shifted and aimed itself toward the runes in Sandal's grasp.  _Elvhen_ symbols whose meanings were long lost to ancient shadows glowed bright as the light touched them just the right way.

And in a dazzling display, Cassandra arched slowly through a hard growl, her body paling to a ghostly pallor as the red lyrium itself was drawn out of her in liquid form, the amulet working as both a conduit and a lure. The blighted titan blood took the bait and rose through the air, chilling in the ice storm Vivienne created, and hurriedly moved snakelike into the white-hot shelter the runes so seemingly provided.

It was a trap, Cole realised. The body it harboured lay cold and dying, unable to run from the threat for the rope imprisoning it and the weapons at its throat. The lyrium knew it had nowhere else to go. Its only chance to save itself was to escape to a warmer place where it could grow and spread its malice.

But the runes would offer it nothing like the freedom it wanted.

They couldn't decipher the cries of rage, the shouts of the Commander, or the orders of the Spymaster over the furious power of the arcane hissing in their ears. Papers went airborne, books flew off the shelf, the hearth fire swirled dangerously, flames catching on the wind and mixing with the snow and hail caught up in the whirlwind.

Everything was a blur… A beautiful, boundless blur…

Cassandra heaved in the throes of death itself as the red lyrium was expelled and exorcised, now thoroughly banished from her bruised and broken body. The shard on her shoulder shrank to nothing, leaving only a dark smear where it had been, like a red wine stain on a fine tablecloth.

And when at last the final remnants were drawn free of her form, the bright light of Andraste's Sun burst like a dying star in the night sky,  _elvhen_ magic exploding against her chest, yet leaving the amulet itself entirely intact.

Alexius rushed to Bull's side and held the Seeker's forearm down on the comforter as they untied her, the sickly needle in his hand plunging into a large, inflamed vein just below the sleeve of her borrowed shirt.  _No more black,_ Cole realised with shock and elation as the magister injected the powerful serum. Her veins were still a heavy pink, sliced from the inside with a hundred thousand abrasions, but that part of her still worked, unlike much the rest of her. It was what the lyrium had needed to preserve to travel throughout her bones, her brain, her muscles, all to manipulate her whenever it wanted to. It was the only part of her which still worked the way it should.

The elf's wards fell, but were not reset. The storm died with a wave of the First Enchanter's hand. Time came back into focus as the Altus clenched his fists, swaying with dizziness. The Arcanist and the Father reached up to help the Seeker's saviour down from the bed, the filled twin runes under his arms pulsing like giant hot coals.

"She's not responding," Magister Alexius called out to them through their momentary respite. Two fingers pressed against her wrist, then gave up and moved to her neck, still not finding what they were looking for. "No pulse. Her heart  _must_ pump the medicine through her for it to take effect!"

" _No!"_

Cole's eyes widened as the Inquisitor let go of his arm and pushed her way through her friends, determined not to lose her when they had come so far.  _"Come on, Cassandra,"_ she gritted her teeth through angry tears, charging the greatest spell her former lover had taught her, "we didn't do all this just for you to lay down and fucking  _die_  on us!"

She threw her hands out, the cast creating a deafening  _BOOM!_ like that of lightning splitting a tree in two, and raised her hands over her head, a green beam of Fade energy springing from the centre of the Seeker's unmoving chest. On wings sewn from spirits, the Seeker was lifted bodily from her deathbed for seconds that felt like an eternity, every onlooker forced to crane his or her neck to witness the wild attempt to shock her back to life.

Some were praying to whoever would listen. Others were hoping beyond themselves for the Inquisitor to truly be blessed by the hand of Andraste. And the rest watched on in an awful blend of horror and helplessness, begging the stars for the spell and their efforts to succeed.

When Cassandra came crashing down on the mattress, she slumped like a ragdoll and did not move. In an instant, Dorian, Alexius, Cullen, and Solas were on her, untangling bared limbs and moving her to the cold floor so they could lie her flat. Healing spells to support the resurrection were cast, and her head and neck were held between the Commander's knees to prevent injury as the mages poured over her.

Out on the balcony, the Inquisitor used her mark to create a tear in the Veil, holding the hole steady as Sandal lightly tossed each of the runes through. He even waved goodbye to them as the Herald ripped her hand free of the beam between herself and the rift, sealing the trapped red lyrium that had poisoned Cassandra for so long on the other side, where it could do no harm to anyone ever again.

The job well and truly done, she raced to be with the others crowding around the motionless, blue-tinted body on the floor, helping to sustain the Seeker in any way she rightly could.

The magister once again pressed his fingers to the hollow of her neck, holding them there as he counted the seconds soundlessly behind clinical eyes.

"Alexius," Dorian prompted his former mentor in a desperate urgency, "is she…?"

He held up a hand to still him, pushing past their thirst for answers to concentrate in the seconds between spaces. Time ticked past in silence, the wait an unbearable weight on their hearts.

" _Alexius,"_ Dorian pleaded, his voice cracking on the verge of raw grief.

 _…There,_  Cole spotted the soft light, going weak and falling to his knees on the outskirts.  _There she is, Varric._

It was then that the room collectively cried out, many bursting into tears of complete relief and countless joys, as the Seeker of Truth pulled the first free breath since the Fallow Mire into her starving lungs…

So it was done.

And Cassandra Pentaghast was awake to the world again.

_At last…_


	32. Helping You Find Those Words

_Defend yourselves… Kill me if you must… Maker, I cannot hold it…_

_There's no need for us to kill you_ _…_ _Stand down…_

 _…_ _It's off, look_ _…_ _She lost it_ _…_

 _…_ _Help me…_

She truly had lost it, whatever "it" had been. Control. Willpower. All sense of self. Gone. This was helplessness at its rawest.

There was a void between here and there, one so extensive and clouded that time was no easier a concept to grasp than consciousness. The echoes were too strong not to be real, but the searing stab of a mortal wound through her form was all too excruciating to process. The voices themselves were familiar, laced with a panic that tore her in two, fragmenting reality into nightmarish shards that fell across the darkest seas and created waves which eroded away the fragile shorelines of her damaged mind. The Void enveloped her eyes, drowned her body in deepest reds, paralysed her to nothing…

It was sometime afterward that the dreams began. A life segmented in pieces, not so much flashing before her eyes as they were recreated in unsettling, heartwrenching detail. Some moments were off or misconstrued in places, but the narrative was much the same as it had been… Or perhaps her memories were inaccurate, the blanks haphazardly filled in as the gaps in time grew vaster, and the visions she walked were the true account of her experiences. Nevertheless, the joy and sorrow were as piercing as when she had first felt them.

_Damn the Fade. Curse this place to oblivion. Maker take the whole of it._

When she had run the gauntlet of every weapon the nightmares could throw at her, Cassandra felt her patience wane considerably. It was possible that escape was just a matter of finding the demon responsible for ensnaring her and slaying it outright. Very well, easily done. Nothing she had not faced in the waking world on a seemingly regular basis, and by all accounts, she had already impaled one of the creatures on the end of her sword. All she needed to do was find the powerful demon reigning over this realm that was ultimately responsible for the entire charade, if indeed that was what she faced, and kill it. Finding the demon within the endless mazes of memories and dreams, however, was proving to be a challenge. Unfortunately for the cowardly entity, Cassandra excelled at challenges.

When the next one began, she had been ready for a confrontation… But as always, her recollection, indeed any clarity she had gained in the spaces between dreams, was wiped clean. She was once again thrown headlong into the middle of a scene as if it had begun without her, blind to its nature, just as she had been every time before, living the day anew. And so, unaware, she played along.

It was cold on the mountain. Thick evergreen branches cradled piles of pristine snow that looked heavy enough to tumble off at any moment. Icicles easily the length of her body hung like swords on display in an artisan's shop. The breeze stabbed indiscriminately like poison-laced needles, sending unavoidable chills through her despite the masterwork armour she wore for protection from the elements.

Snow once settled on the ground was now in disarray, trampled, muddied, and stained with the blood of enemies they had not slain, confounding her to the point where she nearly missed it when he knelt beside her. In her hand, she cradled a torn swatch of fur and fabric, concentrating on the only clue she had to solving this disconcerting mystery.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the realisation that she had been spoken to. She looked up at his stubbled chin, warm amber eyes tinged with sympathy and open curiosity, his square jaw set with a rigid concern. Taken by surprise, she combed her mind for the question she had missed and soon pieced the puzzle together.

He was smiling, lips moving in a memory that could recall conversation being had, but not what was spoken. She felt her throat thrum in return, her responses harsh and cutting as he aimed to ease her harrowed mind with something about the character of a man, about forgiveness and getting to know someone beyond false impressions, but she couldn't decipher their content. Nothing passed his lips now except the gruff murmurings he was known for, the meaning behind the sounds lost to the fog of time, but never their intent.

Standing again, a weight lifted from her shoulders as he let out a laugh, something she had said pleasing him greatly. For the life of her, she could not discern the cause of this surprising reaction, but it mattered little. Though he managed to annoy her beyond reason at the best of times, and at worst brought her to the edge of unbridled rage with his usual lies and antics, there was something magical lying beneath the moments that brought them together on even footing.

Despite not doing so at the time, there was now a telltale tug at the corner of her mouth upon watching his eyes sparkle as he delved into the intricacies of his craft. For that was what he spoke of now, she remembered: a tale that had doused the flames of the burning bridge between them, a character too familiar not to be a projection of a self-inflated author's ego. That man, however, that person he had created in his mind and introduced into their private story, was not one born of truth, but of fantasy and wish fulfillment. The character he had created was what the dwarf standing before her desired to be, longed to emulate.

That man was purely fiction, though. Bravado, thievery, honeyed words, Void-take-the-world attitude… He could be none of those things, try as he might to play the part. He cared too deeply, felt too easily, remembered too clearly to truly be that man…

…And she was at once profoundly grateful that he was the man he was with her instead of the myth he so often portrayed to most everyone else.

His voice, once bursting with levity and hope, was silenced, words chilled and falling frozen to the ground. She lowered her eyes to him, worry etching a knot between her charcoal brows. Speechlessness, breathlessness, shock, dread. A comprehension that seemed to both ignite him with urgency and snuff his heart in shadow.

_Cassandra…_

Her whispered name hadn't so much escaped his lips than it had been shaken loose from the depths of her memories. But this was no ordinary memory.

For the first time in perhaps a thousand dreams or more, she grabbed hold of a flash of awareness and refused to let go. It was happening again. Another instance wherein all had gone wrong. She had lived so many of these pivotal traumas back to back with no rhyme or reason behind their inception other than the gut-wrenching notion that she was being reminded of each disturbing event for a purpose.

All at once, she knew what was to come. Worse still, she begrudgingly admitted that she had little power to alter course, for how many times had she come to this suspended awakening and found herself unable to change events as they played out? Fifty times? A hundred? Her arm flew to the hilt at her hip just as it had before, drawing the gleaming sword from its scabbard as though the act itself was etched in stone, unchangeable and constant. She listened to herself plead for the answers she already knew, yet hadn't known then.

If only she could go back, if she could just stay and fight this time, defying the reality of what she had done instead. Why had she  _listened_  to him? She shook her head in confusion at her own actions that day on the mountain, ready to stand her ground instead of running this time, tightening gloved fingers over the leather grip in preparation to do battle with the impending abomination as her training had always demanded.

But the replayed memory of her flight from this scene hardly shone light on her spontaneous decision. It did not make sense… Why had she listened and reacted to his command? Why had she obeyed him outright, leaving him to be beaten to the edge of death?

 _Cassandra,_  Varric's grave voice suddenly interrupted her silent frustrations,  _listen to me carefully…_

She paused, wide eyes transfixed on the seriousness in his haunting eyes.

_Whatever happens, no matter what you hear…_

And the next words out of his mouth shook Cassandra to the core.

… _Run. Don't look back._

The air's biting chill caught in her throat, robbing her of the breath she needed to counter the lightheadedness affecting her vision. Her heart tore in half as she fought to swallow, hot tears welling in her eyes and eventually trailing over an icy cheek, flooding half-healed scars inflicted on a dozen unspoken hurts.

All this time, Cassandra had never made the connection. She had never understood how she could have submitted to Varric's request that day in Emprise du Lion so easily. He had told her why he'd made his plea at the time, but never had she absolved herself for leaving, nor comprehended her seemingly senseless submission to the order given.

Had she not been reminded so recently, had she not relived those waking nightmares of her lost innocence, she may have gone on forever questioning herself. Now, though, she felt the truth as if a bomb had exploded beneath her feet.

 _Run, Cassie. Don't look back,_ Anthony had rasped as he shoved her toward the dining room window, the castle guard closing in around them.

 _Run. Don't look back,_ her brother had screamed as they tore over the Nevarran landscape under the light of dawn, his last words to her before a cultist had dealt the cruellest blow.

There… was the answer, at last. She released a plume of breath in a moment's bittersweet clarity. Seeker Cassandra had not been the one who had raced toward Suledin Keep that day for help.

Little Cassie Pentaghast had.

This time, Varric was not swept away by angry blue flames before her eyes. He was not cut off and thrown to the snow nearly a dozen yards from where they now stood. She looked up, fire in her eyes as she searched for the abomination that should have stepped in by now, and instead found a figure striding slowly toward her, the full set of gleaming steel armour shining so bright that, for a moment, she believed it to be a rift in the Veil opening nearby.

Overwhelmed with an outpouring of emotions, Cassandra could only watch as the dwarf vanished into thin air as though she had been conversing with a ghost all along… and perhaps that was the right of it. Still, she had been left to face a new ghost on her own, one that neither alarmed her nor could move her from this spot, no matter how it tried… If indeed that was what it was here to do.

The towering knight met her grief-stricken stare, the eyes behind a slit in the helmet glowing white and pure. Forming a connection, one feeling – one singular purpose – touched her through the sorrow, the heartache, the relief:

_Justice._

"Now may you walk the path of forgiveness, Seeker of Truth."

She swallowed hard, not daring to sever their unblinking gaze. Doubting for a moment, she gave this being a thorough once-over, wondering whether they were a nameless Spirit of Justice… or  _the_ Spirit of Justice, the infamous half of the abomination she had been expecting.

Her throat tore before she could ask the question. It pained her to speak, and she rubbed rough circles over her neck to coax the words out. The soothing motion did not help matters whatsoever.

"You recognise me for what I am," they answered regardless with a stoic calm, undertones of guilt in the admission. "I carry a message from the mage Anders, good lady. I would be obliged if you could receive it."

The weight of the blade was heavy in the palm of her hand. Cassandra would not trade words with this spirit, message or no. Instead, she would define  _true_ justice for it once and for all.

Glaring, she commanded her grip to tighten, her resolve to solidify, and willed the blade to lift high.  _Strike quickly. Cut the monster down._

Justice outstretched their hand as she moved to strike, blinding Cassandra with a flash of light.

And all at once, the dream coldly dissolved.

**~oOo~**

Varric thought he would never see daylight again, the way he had so thoroughly destroyed his sleeping patterns. Despite all the odds, though, his lids rose just enough to spy the full light of midday pooling behind poorly-drawn curtains set over the narrow window. The chill in the room had struck him enough to rouse his tired bones, followed by the festive cheers and raucous cries of a distant, lively tavern full of booming business and bitterly-cold beer.

" _Mmmph_ , c'mon… Five more minutes, Bartrand," he groaned out his annoyance and rolled over on the…

Wait, where the hell was he?

 _Not Kirkwall. No_ way  _is this the Hanged Man._

… _Oh._

Brows knitting in a critical frown, he squinted as he scratched at his neck and took in the belated familiarity of the room in which he had trespassed, the tidy quarters just as meticulous as his own now were. He sniffed and snorted, cleared his nose of sediment, and wiped a hand over his eyes, collapsing against the cooler pillow on the other half of the Seeker's bed -

Only to learn just how painfully solid it was.

Glaring in confusion, Varric sat up and rubbed the fuzz on his jaw to ease the ache of his bones, tightly wrapping his back and shoulders in the blanket while he turned to investigate the offending object stuffed into the pillowcase. The damned thing was stubborn, but if this was the Seeker's idea of a hiding place, the flaw in her scheme should have been obvious.  _Why not stick it under the mattress or in the nightstand drawer like a normal person?_ he wondered, although he already knew the answer. The Seeker was anything but normal. Practical, maybe. Normal? Yeah, nice try.

As he finally gained purchase on the item in question, he could tell immediately that it was a book of some variety. Was it one of his, or the one with the illustrations that gave her an angry blush whenever he or Sera brought it up? He wrenched it from the fabric and lifted it close to his face for inspection, turning it in his hands until the dim daylight reflected off the cover.

Emblazoned holy flames of Andraste:  _check_. Gilded page edges:  _check_. Super old and tattered:  _double check._

Yep. None other than the Holy Chant. Varric was aggrieved to find it so close to where Cassandra would normally rest her head. He'd spent more than a few nights with her here and had never encountered the book in her bed before, but since he'd been away, it must have taken up residence beside her. Either she was reading it out of habit, or she was hoping the words would offer her comfort through the more severe surges… Comfort he hadn't been there to offer.

Varric scratched at his tousled bed head and moved to place the item back where he found it, when suddenly his eye caught sight of a dull slip of parchment that didn't align with the rest of the book. Barely a corner of it stuck out, and he would have missed it had he turned the binding toward him instead of away. Frowning, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps it was just a bookmark, but the red ribbon glued into the binding was sandwiched between another Canticle entirely.

It did occur to him, after sitting up against the chilly stone wall and setting the Chant on his lap, that further examination would go well beyond a typical invasion of privacy. After all, what  _else_ would someone stuff in a holy book if not something deeply personal? But he'd technically overstepped the mark already by breaking and entering her quarters to begin with, so at this rate… Well, what was one more infraction?

The dwarf hadn't even finished rationalising this to himself before the Chant of Light was open to the marked page. After his blurred vision focused, a familiar hymn stared back at him, one that he keenly remembered the Seeker uttering in the depths of a certain elven fortress in a makeshift Orlesian tundra. Running his thumb over the printed words fondly, he shifted the note in his other hand and stole a glance at it, kicking himself for not bringing his reading glasses along for the night. Laboriously, he began to decipher the shaky script:

 _He invades my fortress, my spoils surrendered_  
_Showers me with mercy, taking only what I can give_  
_He raises his flag high over my proud walls,_  
_Colours to show all others that I am his._  
_I am taken, renamed, forces and resources merging under his banner.  
_ _Together, I believe we shall conquer the world._

He frowned at it, speaking to the parchment as if she had the power to reply. "…Little heavy on the military metaphors, but not a bad start, I guess…" Honestly, it was better than whatever dabbling  _he'd_  attempted with poetry in the past. He wasn't much good when it came to rhyme schemes, but then again, she hadn't used much if any, either. Maybe that wasn't the point of some poems… Cassandra was better with words than she let on, apparently.

Curious, he turned the leaf over to see what, if anything, was written on the other side, and indeed more awaited him there. This appeared to be two separate mental notes, as though Cassandra had recorded her musings in the dead of night.

_True love exists, even for the undeserving. Aspiration. If they found each other, then perhaps one day, Maker willing…_

Maybe it was just the haze of sleep getting in the way of his reading comprehension, but he was at a loss on this one. It didn't even look finished, possibly drafted after waking from a dream and promptly forgotten as sleep found her again. Whatever it meant, though, it had been important enough to write down. A prayer of some kind…? He shook his head and moved on to the next one.

_Ask him to ensure Cristina and Victor find love regardless of their hardships. They deserve more than we could keep for ourselves._

This one was more straightforward, a sombre smile turning the corner of his lips. "Sure thing, Seeker," he whispered back to her secret request, the glint in his eye dying as memories returned in a flash.  _…Just promise me you'll stop chasing dragons._

Tapping his fingertips against the book in a steady rhythm, he daydreamed briefly about visiting the chapel in the gardens… How fitting would it be to kneel in prayer for once, laying his heart bare before the Maker, only to turn around and find Cassandra walking toward him, bruised but healed? After all, it was a great literary device: a repetition of ideas…

But he dismissed the idea from his mind. Depressingly, it was just too much to hope for.

There was little point in getting up to start the day. It wasn't like he could make himself useful; the Spymaster had made that much clear. He couldn't even visit the Inquisitor's room in the tower after being summarily banned by Sparkler and Nightingale…

Relenting, Varric closed the holy book and blindly tucked it back into the plain pillowcase. He fell on his left side in a daze and shifted until his stomach touched the quilt, his cheek flat against the foot of the bed as he pushed the world outside just a bit further away. At least for a little while longer. Not like he would be missed, anyway…

He felt Mouse resettle and curl against his back, her purr offering a morsel of comfort in the dim, cold room.

"…Five more minutes, Bartrand," Varric pleaded with the pushy older brother who sadly wasn't there. In an instant, sleep overpowered him once again, his last waking thoughts dwelling on the memories of a dingy old city and simpler times.

**~oOo~**

With a breath, she had returned to the world.

Yet it took ten thousand more before the world returned to her.

After it did, nothing made sense. Intense discussions, muddled thoughts, scrambling bodies all huddled around her – much like the first time she had come to, that morning. Although she had only flashes of memory from when she'd briefly regained consciousness, it hardly mattered, as she had passed out again shortly thereafter, either from intense pain emanating from her gut or some spell knocking her out for her own sake, and no one had found the time to explain much once she was eventually brought round again. Not right away, at least.

"Deep breaths… In… And out…"

Cassandra shot a surreptitious glance toward the Commander, who was seated on a large rug by the fireside. She didn't follow the instruction given, instead focusing on the strange hands resting near her head on the pillow. They were hers, supposedly, but they didn't look normal. Nothing did - or perhaps it all did, but her eyes had changed. The tint over her vision now saturated her surroundings in a cool hue, as if she was encased in glacial ice or the world was bathed in bright moonlight. The hearth was lit with what looked to her like veilfire, but that couldn't be right. How strange, she mused, that her sight should alter so drastically without warning. Truly, she struggled to remember the last time such soothing tones had registered so fully. Deep shades of blue, purple, and even green were everywhere, and she struggled to comprehend how she had ever overlooked their absence. Now that the colours had returned, she couldn't pinpoint when exactly they had been lost.

This was decidedly not the Paradise she had been promised, nor the infirmary, and all at once she desired the familiarity of her fever dreams over the confusion of reality setting in.

"…Listen to the wind outside… Follow its path over the mountain… Feel the breeze prickle your skin and stir your hair… Become keenly aware of the world breathing around you…"

She watched as the corner of Josephine's lip turned up in a soft, contented smile, Cullen's personal techniques having a positive effect on her. Inquisitor Lavellan, by contrast, shivered at the mental picture presented, fidgeting and repositioning herself often in discomfort. From the sofa, Leliana disguised a scoff by clearing her throat, keeping her lightly freckled nose buried in the missives scattered over her lap. Once again, the Commander ignored the clear mockery the Spymaster made of the whole procedure.

Overt silence penetrated Cassandra's mind. The sinister voices of the red lyrium that had haunted her were utterly mute, a fact she still had difficulty grasping. There was a habitual expectation that remained, waiting for all sound to drop out and the evil to once again thunder through her soul, but it never happened. Indeed, from what she had been told, it should never happen again, yet Cassandra had trouble believing this despite their explanations and reassurances. Beneath the sombre meditation taking place, the lack of chanting, singing, or shrill screaming within her skull was ironically horrific in its silence, activating a keen sense of what could only be described as… as loneliness…

"Would anyone like to go first?"

The chronic pain she had grown so accustomed to over her ordeal was all but gone. She could twitch a finger without feeling as though a bone had shattered under the strain. She could breathe without her lungs tearing like cheap, tattered fabric beneath fractured ribs. Her head felt steady, her heartbeat slow, her joints like they were encased in down feathers. No more did blood claw through her veins like coarse sand through rusted pipes… And though her throat was all but destroyed, this remained her sole complaint, which was surely better than the anguish of tortures so inhumane that she'd not wish them on even a deserving enemy.

Even still, the lack of fiery nerves and sharp, tumorous twinges was numbing. Cassandra felt detached from her own body, shocked into existence, and she wasn't sure whether the sensation was due to the healing spells of the allied mages, the strange tea leaves that Dorian had brewed for her before departing for brunch, or the overwhelming fact that she truly was…  _cured_.

The word hit her again as another icy breeze swept over her skin, which highlighted yet another prominent detail, and she gave silent thanks for the distraction. How long had it been since she'd last shivered from a brisk mountain air, since she'd experienced anything but scorching fire around her? This awakening was like returning to Skyhold from the Forbidden Oasis all over again, giving her the sudden urge to roll around in the snow like a young girl during Satinalia. Try as she might, however, the distraction was short-lived, and she soon resumed the inner battle that splintered her mind into warring factions.

_I'm alive. Andraste heard my cries. Maker, thank you._

_Idiot! This is just another trap! Find the demon, disembowel it, and free yourself!_

_This is the most uneventful trap yet, then. Lying still on a bed while others calmly meditate around me? How imaginative._

_Unless that is the_ point _. Did you think of that?_

 _But this is real. I_ know _it… I must have faith._

_What "faith"? It was shattered long ago and you know it. You've just been going through the motions._

"What of  _'la splendeur des coeurs perdus'?"_ she heard Leliana above whoever was speaking across the room, piercing through her silent worries. The question was delivered as a formal accusation, but most of Leliana's questions sounded like accusations at the best of times. Waiting for her heart to slow after her last fearful thought, Cassandra relaxed and rested her eyes for a while. There was so much to process, and trying to take it all in at once was beginning to fatigue her.

A gentle sigh from Josephine. A lapse in meditation. Then Leliana spoke again. "You cannot act on these feelings in good conscience." Another awkward silence near the fire ticked past. "Don't look at me that way... I didn't interrupt just to be cruel. I just don't see how it would ever work the way you hope it could."

She heard a rustle of stiff garments as the Ambassador ironed out the wrinkles of her skirts on the floor. "The tenets of  _la splendeur des coeurs perdus_ are as sacred as Andrastian doctrine, Leliana _._ That ardour is bittersweet but named. That love is respected but known. I know this, and I never would have entertained the idea that anything more could exist, but… But my  _heart_ … I do not think I can easily brush these feelings aside. Can you not see how circumstances have changed for us all?"

"Perhaps we should put that off for now and restart our breathing exercises," Cullen suggested with all the caution of a mouse sneaking a morsel of food from the housecat's dish.

A long pause followed this, wherein Cassandra leaned up and sipped from her polished mug with a shaky hand. The tea was exceptional but left a strong aftertaste of aniseed, presumably meant to soothe her aching throat. However, the brew only highlighted every ragged contour with a startling mint chill so foreign to her that she couldn't manage more than the minutest of sips at a time. She tested her vocal chords with a hum, but just as last time, nothing but hollowness emerged past her lips. The inflammation was too much. Whatever cure the Seeker had undergone while unconscious had stolen her voice, and simple tea wouldn't be enough to restore it.

"Do we know anything about the man beyond his service and criminal record?" A rueful laugh, and then, "Those aren't even separate records, come to think of it."

Exasperation won the day. "If you thought so poorly of him, then why tell me of his weekly morning hikes to the steepest slopes of Skyhold?" the Ambassador bit back. "Why feed into the romantics of my idealistic mind if you have always thought so little of him?"

A pensive sigh escaped Leliana's walls. "I wrongly assumed this was nothing more than 'the splendour of lost hearts.' Had I known it would come to this…"

"All right," the Commander waved from his place on the floor. In a futile attempt to redirect them back to the exercises, he straightened his spine and placed firm hands on his knees, prompting them to do likewise. "Deep breaths.  _Please_. Try to delve deeper into yourself and expand your spirit outward."

Lavellan's brow furrowed, an expression which was still strange without the Dalish blood writing to obscure it. "How… How can I do both?"

The man paused and faltered. "I don't… Just – take deep breaths and let your mind… do the thinking. Or – no, try not to think. I think. Wait, which is it?" he asked himself.

Cassandra couldn't avoid the pang of sympathy that accompanied the humour of the situation. Both Seekers and Templars were trained to ground themselves in a similar way, to reflect on the Maker, Andraste, and their small role as part of a larger whole. One person could change the course of events for good or ill, and Cullen could be observed reflecting on his own influence more of late, which was an improvement on the outlook he'd once zealously adopted. If this was the man that the Maker had chosen to rebuild the Templar Order, then this change in outlook could benefit every Templar yet to come. Maker willing, Cassandra would do the same for the Seekers of Truth. Working in step with one another, they might even bring about some of the reform that the Chantry desperately required.

But there were still a few kinks to work out in his methodology – kinks that Lavellan and Leliana were testing with each sceptical line of questioning. Luckily, there was still time to clarify the new direction before it would take effect.

"Never mind," Cullen exhaled his frustrations. "Who would like to go next?"

Wanting to give voice to her conflicted emotions, Cassandra took a determined breath, parting her lips as she again made to hum out a note. All that followed was a faded wheeze and a slight, breathy undertone. A sizeable, searing ache accompanied it and caused her unsung tune to catch abruptly in her throat.

They turned toward her as she coughed, the pitiful concern in their faces humiliating and aggravating her incessantly. "Cassandra," Josephine asked with a turn of her brow, "is there something you need?"

Even if her wheezing was an attempt to alert them to a complaint, she had no ability to say as much, and they all knew it. Apparently, the screams and roars of protest from the red lyrium during the healing process had done a number on her, and Cassandra suppressed a violent shiver at the thought of her doing such things with no memory at all that they had occurred. Goosebumps ran down her forearms and over her shins, filling her with a cold she hadn't felt since the substance had begun its slow takeover of her body. Having no way to express the existential crisis she now endured in the aftermath of her cure, the Seeker simply shook her head, looking down at her tea until the focus was again redirected.

"Very well." Clearing his throat, Cullen nodded toward the elf sitting across from him. "Inquisitor? What about you?"

Lavellan shifted her eyes from Cassandra to the Commander, her façade remaining intact for the span of a breath. As she continued to stare at him, however, something shifted beneath the surface, her lighthearted expression shattering. For a moment, it seemed as though she might suddenly burst into tears, and Cassandra briefly wondered which of the straws had at last broken her back. It could have been any number of things: the approaching battle against Corypheus, the uncertainty behind the anchor and its ultimate cost to her bearing it, the stress of leaving her clan and living amongst humans for too long, losing the guidance and support she once received from Solas, the Inquisition itself and the loss of life they had suffered, or even a combination of all the above.

But as she took a hitched breath, her green eyes shining with unshed tears, the lower door suddenly burst open.

Cassandra sat up, her back tensing with hopeful anticipation…

Then she relaxed again.

"Look at all the  _women,_ up here! This is  _grand,"_  Sera exclaimed as she meandered into the Tower Room. "Oh right, hi, Cully," she added, giving him a mock-salute of acknowledgement.

A pair of clicking heels ascended the staircase at a more dignified pace. "Commander, if we're not interrupting, would you mind vacating the tower for an hour?" Vivienne's voice floated up the staircase before she made an appearance in similar fashion. "I'm sure Lady Cassandra would prefer to freshen up for the day ahead without male eyes upon her."

The look hanging on Cullen's face said he had given up on the meditation long before they arrived, but didn't appreciate being dismissed outright by someone holding no rank above his own. "Of course," he acquiesced regardless, rising to his feet slowly. "Thank you for your time, ladies. Perhaps we can… try again later." His doubt was as plain as the hand rubbing the back of his neck. To the Seeker, he added in parting, "I'll, er, get my shirt back when you're, em… Never mind. Keep it, I have others. Congratulations on your cure, Cassandra. And… get well soon." Wincing at his own ramblings, he waved meekly and took the stairs toward the bottom exit.

Cassandra furrowed her brows questioningly at the women approaching the bed, but soon had her answer as to what was afoot when Sera noisily dragged a metal bath from the water closet to her left. The elf situated it near the desk, removing the iron cauldron to set by the fire. After that, she prostrated herself on the foot of the bed and rolled until she met Cassandra's feet.

It wasn't long before she was surrounded, but she was taken aback when Vivienne moved beside her in the bed, crossing her ankles as she smoothed out the wrinkles in her white attire. "Leliana, darling, come sit beside me for a moment."

Leliana obeyed the would-be Divine and came around to sit with her back against the headboard. At that, Madame de Fer let out a gentle sigh of relief and took each of their hands in her own, lacing their fingers together in holy solidarity. "And so it is," she traded smiles with the two women by her side. "I have my Right Hand," the mage nodded, tightening her grip on Cassandra, "and my Left," she concluded, doing the same to Leliana. "All's right with the world - or at least it soon will be, again. Long may it last, my dears."

Sitting down on the edge of the stately bed, Josephine dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. "I apologise," she waved in dismissal of herself, keeping her face averted. "Pay no mind to my sudden outburst."

" _Pfft._ No snifflin', right? We're all big girls 'ere," Sera grinned just as Lavellan lowered herself on the other corner. "'Ey, get a loada this!" In an instant, she rolled herself further up the bed until she was thoroughly sprawled across all of the humans' shins. "Know wot this is?! A Denerim Dogpile!"

Pinned to the spot, Cassandra couldn't reach the nightstand to set her mug down, so instead took her hand back from Vivienne in order to prevent her tea from spilling.

Leliana bucked her knees teasingly, causing the troublesome elf to cradle her head as if wounded. "There's no  _way_ you're comfortable like that, Sera," she smiled through her doubt.

"I've 'ad worse. Yer all  _really_  knobbly, though, I'll give ya that," she laughed.

"Are they?" Lavellan pondered, tapping her chin as she smirked. "Move over, then!"

She didn't spare a second to think, and Cassandra barely had time to raise the mug over her head before Sera was on her lap, the Inquisitor rolling over their feet to rest in Sera's previous spot. It had been an Age since the Seeker had heard Leliana laugh, sounding like one of her ravens as she cackled. Vivienne was less impressed and used long fingernails to poke Sera's flank in protest. Unfortunately, when she squealed and bucked upward, a few drops of tea lapped over the rim and landed on Cullen's borrowed shirt, but Cassandra paid it no mind. She'd dealt with far more than that, today, from what she'd heard.

" _Eugh_ , you're right, Sera," the Herald commented dryly with a wince. "This is extremely uncomfortable."

"For  _whom_ , my dear?" Madame de Fer arched a brow. "Such bony creatures, you are."

"Eat shit, Vivienne," Sera shot her tongue out as she gave the Divine a two-fingered salute.

The mage fired back with a smirk. "Why, have you been baking again?"

The room erupted in laughter at that, even Josephine excusing the scandalous nature of the exchange while she tittered and laid down on her side, head resting on her hand as she propped herself up on a golden elbow along the foot of the bed.

Cassandra vibrated with silent mirth, pausing only to gingerly touch the wound on her chest as the skin creased awkwardly. The flesh there was raw from the ordeal, which had left an imprint on her skin too familiar to ignore. This scar, however, was less terrifying to rationalise than the events themselves, her fingertips brushing lightly over the raised burn. Absently, she traced the sun low on her chest over and again, following the blistered path of each radiating ray. Maker, it matched exactly the brands on the foreheads of the Tranquil she had once dismissed without much thought… But the irony was that her own unique rite, which had bestowed the same mark on her, had restored her humanity rather than robbing her of it…

It took a moment for her to realise the laughter had simmered and died, her shining brown eyes lifting to find her friends watching her contentedly. There was enough warmth there for the rose beneath her cheeks to blossom, her hand awkwardly finding its way back to her mug. She took another deliberate sip, hoping that she would no longer be the focus once she opened her eyes again.

No such luck, though. The attention was inescapable it seemed, and although she appreciated all the help and understanding they freely gave, her inability to speak left her with no way to tell them she needed time to herself for some much-needed reflection.

Lavellan was the first to break the silence. "I'm so grateful you managed to pull through, Cassandra," she said, the words slightly cracking with hoarseness. "I know I'm the odd one out here, but even I almost believed in the Maker after it was all said and done. It really was like witnessing a miracle take place."

There were a few nods of agreement before the other elf chimed in. "You made it, yeah? All alive an' breathin' an' everythin'… That's somethin'… Oh!" Sera squirmed on their laps as she twisted to dig into her back pocket. "Almost forgot! I'm a  _right_ tit!"

Vivienne brought a leg up, resting her chin on her knee as the young woman sat up in the gap created, her own legs still draped neatly over Cassandra's. "Seein' you mess with that blister there got me rememberin' important shite," she smiled, opening her palm. "That dragon got in a good kick an' broke that necklace, so I had to tie the thingy back on with my bowstring after we got ya pinned down. An' after the little dwarf guy did his weird magic-y rune thingy, Widdle went an' fixed the chain for me."

There it was, lying in the palm of Sera's hand.

The Holy Symbol of Andraste, polished to perfection.

A dozen new emotions crowded inside Cassandra's mind, one distinct feeling cramming against the other until there was hardly room to breathe. Little did Sera know that she held history, sentiment, pain, virtue, medicine, darkness, and heartbreak in her hand.

It took no small amount of bravery for the Seeker to curl her fingers around the metal, which was cold to the touch despite resting against the elf's body for however long it took her to deliver it. She had always remembered it emitting a constant warmth, but just as she, that had changed forever. Like her faith, the shape was held in place, but the pendant seemed duller than before, colder, as if the life had been taken from it in an act of desperation.

Perhaps that was the right of it. Perhaps her faith was truly faltering… What a blasphemous admission that would be, had she the means to speak it.

Clutching the gift in her fist, she mouthed her thanks and forced a smile upon her face to appease her onlookers. They were elated for her, and so should she be, but she couldn't shake the spiritual battle raging in her mind.

_Why me? Who am I to be free of this death sentence when no one else before me has ever survived?_

_Can I not just be grateful to have my life back?_

_Great. Now I am ashamed. What else can I feel in the next minute? I act like I murdered Andraste myself._

… _What if not all the red lyrium was removed? What if it will someday grow back to reclaim me?_

Vivienne's clap to her left snapped her out of it with a start. "If we're to have you ready for the festivities in your honour this evening, we must begin preparations. I'll fill the bath and add my personal supply of Val Chevin scented oils. Oh, and send for the tailor, would you, Josephine? You know the one I sent for. She should still be waiting in the lobby."

Cassandra froze. A tailor? Scented oils? _Festivities?_  Oh no, this was a step too far.

Leliana made her way to the Seeker's side of the bed, taking the mug from her hands to set it aside on the sideboard. "You should probably visit the chamber pot before we start in earnest. Do you need help?" she asked quietly as all the others busied themselves with setting water on the boil and filling the tub.

The hapless Nevarran cornered her with a look that said all she could not.  _Yes_ , Cassandra wanted to scream.  _Yes, Maker damn you, I need help! Get me out of here!_

Apparently, though, the tortures the Seeker had endured were not entirely over.

**~oOo~**

Leliana knew that look. She had seen it before. Many times.

The first example that sprang to mind was when Alistair was chosen as king by the Landsmeet in Denerim. He had looked just like a fennec that had turned and spotted an owl high up in a tree, suddenly aware of the stalking apex predator and the impossible distance to its burrow. Without him having to say so, Leliana had known that he did not want to be entangled in such a position. Indeed, everyone had known, but the heir to the throne had steadied his trembling hands and, eventually, become a good and fair king. After all, responsibility has a way of taming even the most disquieted individual.

There was a whisper of that same look on Cassandra's face, in the way her jaw clenched, in how her brown eyes sharpened with anger and denial. She wore it unwittingly, and Leliana knew that had she possessed the will to object, no one would have been left with any excuse to doubt. Were she not naked and bathing in a heated tub, it was possible Cassandra would have done a runner in a heartbeat. Why no one else appeared to notice, the Spymaster didn't know, but perhaps it took seeing how Cassandra functioned – or rather, behaved – at high class festivities in the past to recognise the early signs. Perhaps also the knowledge came with becoming close allies and friends with the Seeker of Truth through years of hardships and strife. Seeing that look in her eyes now, though, was cause for alarm, and Leliana was left disconcerted and conflicted.

Cassandra was not one to fear such trivial social gatherings among nobility. Rather, one could count on her to be the voice of pragmatism. She would often indulge Cassandra's muttered remarks on the pointlessness of the whole affair, on having more pressing matters to attend to, all while keeping her distance from The Game and all its varied players and entrapments. Surely, this cornered reaction was worthy of note, if only for its rarity. It might have been brought on by recognising the fact that she would be the focus, the centre of attention, the woman in the limelight this time. Though the Ambassador and the future Most Holy meant well, her old friend was not the belle-of-the-ball type, nor would she ever scramble to be. And just think: how many Andrastians would flock to the Seeker's side tonight to hear the tale of how she survived the worst affliction to strike Thedas since the Darkspawn Taint? Not that she could say one way or another, but that wasn't the point…

With a foreboding sense of duty, Leliana had stayed throughout it all. She had helped an unsteady Cassandra navigate the rose petal scented bath, assisting with the washing of her dark hair and faded, yet mending body. She'd shouldered her weight while the warrior rose from the tub, drying her off and dressing her in a spare casual outfit that would suffice while the tailor took measurements for the fitting of a flattering ballgown reflecting the latest fashions. She assisted when Alexius, Solas, and Dorian returned from the dining hall for their routine examinations, and endured the onslaught of visitors who poured in and out while bearing gifts of flowers, cards, congratulations, and well-wishes.

Seeing all those bright faces and personalities in the Inquisitor's quarters, brought together under one banner and united in steadfast friendship, filled Leliana with an aching nostalgia for the close bonds she'd formed during the Blight. It felt good to be part of something new and hopeful again. Something worthwhile. Still, though she kept her futile negotiations out of earshot while Lavellan and her companions swarmed the Seeker, she couldn't talk Josephine out of downgrading her plans to a simple banquet in the Main Hall, merely increasing the tense sensation of wariness.

After what must have been hours of preparations and arrangements, the others finally excused themselves to finalise plans for the event. Yet even then she stayed, patiently spoon-feeding a liquid diet to her friend while distracting her with reports of events she had missed during her coma. All the while, Cassandra kept her silence, the cooling spells and elixirs able to restore nothing more than a painful croak at most. That was all right, though, for Leliana could do the talking while she preserved what was left of her mangled throat. And so, she did just that: She spoke about missions and reports, gossip and intrigue, worries and tensions, Bodahn and Sandal, and the miracle of her cure.

She did not, however, speak of Varric. Not once.

Her only justification for not doing so was that Cassandra had not specifically asked, which was a terrible excuse under the circumstances, but if Leliana could keep the dwarf from her mind for just a little while longer, she might buy herself enough time to consider what to do about him… Not that anyone knew where in Andraste's name the fool even was.

It didn't come as a surprise when Cassandra pointed toward the balcony overlooking the gardens. Naturally, the Right Hand would want to visit the chapel to give her thanks to the Maker and His Bride for her divine healing. So, she had her men clear a path through the Main Hall and gardens for the woman to make her way uninterrupted. Once there, the Spymaster had helped light a few candles and uttered a brief prayer of her own before leaving her to the privacy of her prayers.

She stood guard for more than half an hour, bracing herself against the late-afternoon chill setting in while Morrigan and Kieran continued his studies near the gazebo. There was more activity here than even during the desperate prayer circles that had gathered while Cassandra was fighting for her life. This time, they were here to offer praise and worship to the divine hand that had passed over the mountain, ridding His servant of the poison which had sapped her soul without mercy. Mother Giselle led the sisters in a song, one Leliana recognised from her days as a lay sister in Lothering, and she found herself humming along as she stood watch outside the door at the back of the garden. At one point, a pair of yellow eyes turned her way as the boy read aloud from a history text, and the two women shared a solemn nod of recognition and understanding. How strange that this day should stir up more old memories than she had cared to recall in several years…

Yet more were stirred when Bodahn and Sandal entered the torchlit gardens, Madame Vivienne and Lavellan chatting to the elder while the younger listened to the indecipherable ramblings of the Spirit of Compassion, who had previously been so unnerved by the master enchanter. Whatever had passed between them, they appeared to have grown on one another and were engaged in conversation that made little sense to those who, like her, attempted to eavesdrop. Kieran unexpectedly leapt up in that moment, abandoning his studies to join the two in their innocence and oddity by the pots of royal elfroot, the scene simultaneously drawing her suspicion and warming her heart.

Noticing that the father-and-son duo were carrying their provisions, Leliana thought it would be best to fetch Cassandra before they made their way back to Orlais through the eluvian. She stepped to her left and gave the handle a turn, pulling softly so as not to startle her. Cautiously, the Spymaster peered inside, narrowing her gaze toward the altar. Cassandra was kneeling just as before, but when the Seeker saw the candles' flames stir and felt the chilly breeze at her back, she slowly turned around, a glistening hope in her eyes…

Until she spotted the visitor, at least, and then all signs of hope were quickly dashed. The expression in her finely-cut face dropped, morphing to disappointment for a flash before she tucked it safely behind a familiar wall of cool attentiveness.

Cassandra must have prayed that the doorway would reveal someone else, and as she stood staring, Leliana knew intuitively for whom her friend's prayers were whispered. How much more obvious did she need all evidence to be before she could admit it? Silently confessing once again to the part she had played in the War Room that night, she felt her heart fall to her feet, swallowing hard as she forced herself to confront what she now understood to be the truth.

Despite every rational reason to let go, and despite the turmoil he had wrought, unintentionally or no, Cassandra still wanted him.

A moment of speechlessness was drawn out of her as she realised that there would be no talking her friend out of her feelings. Like Josephine's revelation of her affections for an atoning criminal, Cassandra's love for that lying, stocky Free Marcher had survived the brunt of Leliana's reasoned interventions. And she could either continue to shout into the wind, or…

"Cassandra," she called, her voice hoarse and hollow, "Bodahn and Sandal are ready to depart. If you would like to see them before they go, this is your chance."

A few moments passed as her friend blinked, grounding herself back to reality. Then, somewhat unsteadily, she rose up and forced one foot before the other, making her way slowly to the door and leaving her unfinished prayers at the feet of Andraste. She nodded and mouthed her thanks, running fingers through the dark strands brushing down over her hairline. Widening the exit, Leliana held the door as the Seeker passed through and closed it once more, staying close in the event that she might need someone to lean on. Her pride was still intact, however, and Cassandra held her own as she approached the dwarves.

The soon-to-be Divine looked up as they neared, a smile in her welcoming brown eyes. "Ah, my dear Master Feddic, you have a visitor," she nodded graciously in their direction.

When the elderly merchant dwarf turned around, a delighted grin broke out beneath his greying beard. Reaching forward, he took Cassandra's hand in his own and bowed his head over it, placing his other hand atop the prominent bones beneath her skin. "By the ancestors! I've never been more humbled – nay, never more  _honoured_  to meet such a fine woman as yourself, Lady Seeker Pentaghast! Why, to see you up and about again does a great deal of good to this old heart."

He met her eyes as he spoke, his earnestness bringing a rare smile to her lips. As if in apology, she patted the base of her neck and shook her head to explain her lack of a decent reply.

"Oh, I don't doubt you've lost your voice, poor thing, what with the hectic procedure this morning," Bodahn waved in dismissal. "Never you mind that now, my Lady; it'll come back. Don't be worrying yourself on our account. Sandal, my boy, come say goodbye before we head off!" He waved over his son, who barely looked up as he left the trio to form a duo of their own.

Leliana watched Cassandra with a careful eye, observing the woman at her side stiffen her posture. Sandal's icy blue gaze always seemed to pierce through to the soul, although their effect in the fading light was bolder, stronger, more ethereal than ever. She looked up and traded a glance with Madame de Fer, who was just as scrutinising and observant as Leliana was to the proceedings. Meanwhile, the two continued to stare at one another in a trancelike state.

He pointed with a calloused finger, aiming squarely at the Seeker's chest, where her amulet once again hung from her neck. " _No_  enchantment," Sandal said simply to her. When surprised eyes raised to him, he met them blankly. "No more songs. Quiet."

Cole made an appearance in his own unique way, causing them to start when he suddenly materialised at Sandal's side, though the dwarf didn't flinch in the slightest, as if he'd fully expected the move. His face hidden under the wide brim of his drooping hat, the spirit boy uttered, "They took too many of her colours out. Words try to make it better, but they can't hear the screams." Then his tone took on a familiar cadence as he began to mutter anxiously. _"Shackles shattered, splintered shambles on the ground like the things I can't say. Cries of freedom from them, feet frozen until even what's right starts to feel wrong."_

Leliana paled. Although the stream was convoluted, there was no need for clarification, nor did anyone ask for such. Her mouth went dry as she scrutinised Cassandra through the echoing onslaught of private thoughts suddenly laid bare.

What she witnessed there was nothing short of gut-wrenching.

Bodahn laid a hand gently on the shoulder of his son, turning him toward the rear of the gardens. "Come now, Sandal. I think it's time to go home and leave the nice people to their very important work." Before he departed, the old dwarf turned to Cassandra with an encouraging, yet pitiful expression. "Be well in the future, my Lady. We dwarves will always be in your corner, I can promise you that much. Best of luck to you."

Tearful, the Right Hand of the Divine fell to her knees. Leliana made to step toward her in alarm, but before she could move, her friend launched herself forward and embraced the dwarves who had saved her life, expressing her depthless gratitude with all the strength left in her arms. Stunningly enough, Sandal remained complacent through it all, while his father patted her encouragingly. "Now, now, there. It'll take time. Your body's been healed. Time to work on the spirit side of it all, yes? Good, good."

It was as though all composure was lost when Lavellan, too, hit her knees and nuzzled her way into the hug like a lost puppy in the arms of a warm stranger. The dwarves let the young elf take over for them, and Madame Vivienne led them like a true hostess toward the room in which the eluvian had been stored, Morrigan hurrying to activate the artefact as Kieran followed close on her heels. But they hardly noticed as Cassandra continued to embrace the Inquisitor, desperate to bury her face and feelings somewhere, anywhere, safe.

Arms folded over her chest, Leliana stepped around the women on the tall grass and covertly pulled the spirit boy out of earshot. "Cole, is he awake?" she whispered, not bothering to ask first whether he knew where Varric even was. She knew he knew, and that was all she needed.

He shook his head, the loose locks over his eyes stirring softly. Fiddling with the frayed ends of the patch over his stomach, he answered, "No… Should I–?"

"No," she echoed, watching from the corner of her eye as Inquisitor Lavellan helped the Seeker to her feet and wiped the moisture from her own cheeks. "Not just yet. Wait until he wakes on his own. Then go to him."

Leliana did not tell him to inform Varric of the news. Andraste's eyes, she  _should_. She felt the pull of the Maker's will upon her, but she suppressed it and bit her tongue, wary of what she would do once that dwarf was standing before her again.

Instead, she shook all notions of preparing some venom-laced speech aside. "I'll take Cassandra back to the Tower to ready her for the-"

"Cole," the elf beckoned him with a look, "do you think you could translate for me?"

The pair of assassins traded glances with the Dalish and the warrior, glancing at one another oddly before the boy walked to the left and toward them soundlessly. Leliana locked her arms tighter over her chest in apprehension, concern worn plainly beneath her protective hood. She had not been asked to accompany him, but she went to Cassandra's side all the same as a moth to flame.

A biting wind swept through the trees, yet the Seeker's reaction was not to recoil as both Lavellan and Leliana did, bundling themselves in what little protection their attire provided. Rather, she remained firm as she stared at the spirit, her inward pleas radiating from her very aura.

Cole took her in, his piercing gaze blinking only once while he searched her mind. He stared a moment longer as he let out a plume of breath. The air was growing colder, a storm on the horizon as the sky grew ever darker, a foreboding air blowing in with the next gust.

At last he turned to Lavellan. Leliana held her breath.

"She has no voice," was all he said.

Their stunned silence was so thick that it might as well have been a fog rolling in with the changing weather. Lavellan took an extra breath for patience's sake, brows drawing together over green eyes which drifted from Cole to Cassandra and back again. "Are we leaving it to me to state the obvious here or…?"

The Seeker sucked in a breath and opened her mouth to speak. The sound of gravel stones rattled from her throat, bringing forth a maddened, hoarse growl of discontent. In a brief bout of frustration, she gripped the sleeve of Cole's rough patched tunic and pulled him closer to Lavellan.

"Uh… O-okay," he hesitated, throwing glances every which way. "The song isn't right. She doesn't know why."

"That  _still_  doesn't make sense!" Leliana found herself exclaiming, drawing looks of disapproval from a group of Sisters. Having been on the receiving end of those same looks from her fellow Sisters during her stay in Lothering a decade prior, she wasn't keen on seeing them directed at her in her own keep, and so glared right back until they wisely shied away.

"It does," the boy insisted calmly. He hitched out a sigh and fought to elaborate. "It's… complicated. I don't know how to -"

Leliana threw a startled glance at the healed woman when she let out a guttural growl, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. Clearly fed up with either not being understood or with the entire day in general, Cassandra chewed her lip and looked away, standing in awkward silence before glancing back at them, shaking her head, and storming without warning back into the Keep.

At a loss, Leliana watched her go until she moved beyond the darkened doorway. The spirit at her side was gone as surely as if the wind had scooped him up and blown him clean over the battlements, presumably to carry out the Spymaster's whispered orders, but likely in no small part due to his own embarrassment. Fighting the chill, Lavellan tucked her bare hands under her arms for warmth and traded with her a smile that was as bemused as it was anxious.

All the Spymaster could do at this point was grimace. "Perhaps the dress Most Holy picked out was not to her liking," she said, trying to lighten the mood.

Lavellan nodded at her jest, the grin on her face slowly replacing itself with a mounting dread at the corners of her mouth. "Maybe we should call off the ball tonight," she blurted, her newly-bared face paling at the thought. The elf turned to her in a mild panic. "You tell Vivienne. I'll tell Josephine."

She cocked her head to the side and shrugged flippantly. "No, Inquisitor," Leliana replied. "You'd be signing your own death warrant if you tried that tactic… Let's just see what happens. In the end, I think Cassandra will be grateful for the distraction."

 **~** **oOo~**

"Knock-knock."

It took more than a handful of seconds for Varric to realise that actual words had been spoken, muffled as they were. What's more, when realisation finally did dawn on him, he raised his head from the pillow and stared blankly ahead at the chest of drawers, caught in an odd moment between doubt and certainty. He was finally convinced when Mouse, who had been curled in a ball at the foot of the bed, perked up her ears and stared at the obvious shadow engulfing the small crack between the door and floorboards, small muscles tense and frozen beneath her grey fur.

Brows drawing together, he craned his neck and waited for more to be said, but nothing came. Only awkward silence greeted him. "Uh… Who's there?" he said at last, his croaked voice caked in several layers of sleep.

"Me," answered a familiar friend.

A knowing smirk overtook his mouth. Fully aware of what the answer would be, he said his designated lines anyway. "Me who?"

Another awkward pause. It was possible that he was furiously attempting to come up with something clever or witty, but as always, the obvious won out. "I am me.  _Cole_ … That is my name, Varric… Can I come in now?"

The dwarf cleared his throat gruffly and moved to rise, but the lock released with a soft click, the door opening to reveal the young spirit.

He sat baffled, shaking his head as he squinted at the boy. "Where'd you get a key?"

Cole was unsure for a moment, pointing to the long iron blade still protruding from the keyhole. "There is a spare. Cassandra hides it in case the other one goes somewhere else." After the Kid said this, it was as if he realised that he should put the key back before he was caught, so he wrapped his fingers around the bow and pulled the whole of it out with a loud clattering, reaching up to place the item above the wooden door frame outside the room, utterly out of sight.

Varric couldn't help but lurch with silent laughter. "Should've figured she'd stash it out of my reach," he mumbled, getting to his feet to stretch. Shuffling over to the wash basin, he gave his face a quick splash of the icy water and blinked hard against the sudden chill. "Everything okay?"

"Yes," came Cole's whisper in response. He sounded calm, if not a little excited over one thing or another. "Everything is… okay, now. There's no more hurt to heal out there."

 _Well, there's plenty of hurt to go around in here,_ he thought, resigning himself to perform his morning routine to re-establish a bit of normalcy. Even if "morning" was long gone by now, it was an ingrained habit for him, and he began by untying and brushing through his ginger hair, using the polished steel Cassandra insisted on calling a mirror as a guide. His hair once again in place and tied back, he gave his stubble a quick once-over and decided against shaving for now. That could wait until later – besides, he didn't bring any of his toiletries with him, last night.

The air between them was relaxed, punctuated only by the noise outside. Although he estimated that he had slept for several more hours, the tavern across the way was still lively, and even though that made more sense considering the early evening hour, it turned his stomach to think anyone could be celebrating at a time like this.

Realising that his young friend was standing in patient silence, Varric sniffed and raised his brows in a habitual casualness to disguise his mood. "Sounds like a party out there," he commented to fill the void.

He'd not said it to lead Cole into an explanation, and luckily, either the Kid understood that the delivery had been rhetorical or had read his mind well enough to know better than to run with it. The last thing he wanted amidst his languid depression was to hear all about just how happy everyone  _else_  in the damned keep was. Content to believe some victory was won over Corypheus' forces that day, he left it at that and sat down on the chair to set his boots on his feet.

"Oh! I made a friend," the spirit boy exclaimed out of nowhere as Varric set about tightening the buckles. "I think."

"Are we talking about an actual person?"Catching himself, he stiffened his lip and gave an apologetic wave, still bent over with his eyes on the floor. "Uh, I mean… that's good, Kid! I'm proud of you. Really."

Cole nodded, bending to place his palm out for Mouse, and the cat sniffed before rubbing her whiskered cheek and ear against it. "I was scared at first," the boy confessed, "because I didn't know what he was. But I-I didn't know what I was, once. Now I know, and now I know he knows what he is, too. So, we're sort of the same."

Varric stood to retrieve his coat, wrinkling his nose at the state of his underclothes after a long sleep. "And does 'he' have a name?" he wondered absently, fastening the buttons to hide his shame.

He nodded again. "Yes. But it's not the name he's known by."

Normally, he would have encouraged Cole to use his words and answer the question that had been asked, but the dwarf simply shrugged as he adjusted himself and let out a gruff sigh, accepting the Kid's spirit-like tendencies for what they were: vague and confusing as shit, but nevertheless endearing.

There was a distinct rankness of morning breath on his tongue, and he hadn't brought anything along to clean his teeth. If he remembered correctly, Cassandra usually kept a bottle of hard liquor in a drawer. He highly suspected she used it more to clean battle scrapes and cuts than as a coping mechanism, though. Opening the top drawer of her dresser, he looked beneath the piles of neatly folded clothes and found the bottle right where he'd last seen it, once nestled beside the vials of red lyrium the Seeker had stashed before he'd promptly thrown them over the battlements after their last morning together.

A shiver ran up Varric's back as he snatched the stuff out of the drawer and slammed it shut, shaking visibly while uncorking the clear glass and raising it to his lips to stave off the memory.

"Oh. You forgot," Cole piped up in alarm.

"Beg pardon?" he raised a brow, taking a generous mouthful to swish the foulness away –

He lurched upon registering the disgusting taste enveloping every corner of his mouth. On instinct, he scurried toward the mantel and instantly sprayed the alcohol over the ashy stones, grimacing and scraping untrimmed nails over his tongue in desperation, luckily only just sparing the pair of dead mice on the hearth a gruesome squish beneath his boots. " _Eugh, thit,"_ Varric slurred, lightly kicking Mouse's "gifts" to the side.  _"'Hut the thuck!"_

"You forgot about Vivienne's potion," the Kid explained in his usual timing. "I'm sorry. I should have said something. I was thinking other things."

Smacking his tongue roughly against the hard palate at the roof of his mouth, the dwarf hacked and spat one more time before turning away, mentally noting the rancid flavour of mabari piss (which, thanks to one of Hawke's pranks in Kirkwall, he was all-too familiar with). "How'd you know about…?" He cupped his hand below the water in the basin and lapped it up, swishing and spitting in an effort to cleanse himself. "Ah, never mind. You were probably there all along."

Cole nodded, now sitting at the end of the bed to better pet the dozing cat. The sounds from outside were dying down, from what he could tell… Or maybe they weren't quieting so much as they were moving away.

"Hey, Kid?" he asked, his words trembling in his throat treacherously. "Ahm… When you mentioned back there that nobody else was hurting anymore, what exactly did you mean?"

The spirit paused in his petting and stood upright, his face obscured by the rim of his large hat. His fingertips joined for a moment before they lowered to his sides again, as though he was unsure of what to do. He swallowed and took a slow breath, eventually raising his blue eyes to meet the dwarf's.

It wasn't an awkward moment so much as a tense one for Varric. His imagination ran in frantic circles as he anticipated the answer, dizzying possibilities stirring the settled dust there and clouding his thoughts. There was another muffled cheer in the distance followed by applause, which contrasted massively with the deafening silence in Cassandra's quarters. Managing to squint upward, Varric regarded him levelly despite the spinning nausea that hit him like the aftermath of a three-day bender.

"I should… tell you something," Cole murmured hurriedly. A strange panic set in, making his next statement more indecisive than the previous. "Leliana wanted me to, but thoughts caught like pins ripping through wings, and worries weathered them away until there was nothing she could say."

Cole morphed from one spirit to four as the dwarf continued to stare through his grief-stricken panic, waiting for something more grounded in this realm to clarify that last statement. When nothing came, Varric bit his lip and clenched his fists in a desperate attempt to hold himself together.

If the hurt in Skyhold was truly gone, then… No, he couldn't bear to think it.

"...The last time I asked if it could wait, it ended pretty badly for me, so…" Taking a deep breath, Varric raised his gaze and prepared himself for the tragic news. It would  _have_ to be tragic news. He'd heard nothing good for more than a week, and luck was a lady who preferred her streaks, whether he was winning or losing. And lately, all he'd had were losses.

Still, if their positions were switched, Cassandra would have only ever accepted the truth.

"Go for it, Kid," he said, trembling. " I'm all ears, this time. Hit me with your best shot."

**~oOo~**

The applause in the Main Hall was a wave upon a pebbled beach, stirring the shoreline as a hundred thousand smooth stones kissed and tumbled over one another. They bathed in the cool water and settled once more, only to stir again as another wave swept in to wash over them. It was as predictable as the tide, Cassandra watching from the next room as the sea of masked faces clapped with the entrance of Madame de Fer, quieting only to listen as she welcomed the in-house diplomats, nobles and ambassadors of various kingdoms and nation-states within Thedas. Josephine Cherette Montilyet was then announced, and she threw the Seeker a smile and nod before flooding in to make her appearance. Again, the waves stirred the rocky beach.

She stood beside Leliana and Cullen, pursing her lips as she yet again rolled her shoulders to alleviate the itching of the ridiculous golden embriodery trimming the edges. Why had she submitted to all this pomp and circumstance nonsense? Her neckline plunged as low as she had stooped when she had closed her eyes and allowed them to dress her like a doll for an evening of play, reminding her of her life in Nevarra in all the wrong ways. The Holy Symbol of Andraste rested coldly atop her new, blistered scar, worn supposedly to obscure the mark on her exposed chest, but it only drew her attention to the area - as she was certain it would do the same for any who were brave enough to approach her this evening. She highly suspected that was the point despite all their subtleties, the scars of her healing made into a conversation piece so that the harrowing tale of her survival could be told anew to gawking dignitaries who frequently crossed borders into emotional territories not their own as though they had every right to those sacred lands.

Cassandra scrunched her eyes shut and growled to the best of her abilities, the only word she could manage after three extra mugs of Dorian's healing brew being " _ugh_." In all honesty, it was the only sound that would suffice given the circumstances. She wanted to punch something - a tree, a wall, or even a face or five. White and gold?  _Really?_ They were smart enough to heed the disdain in her eyes as they'd moved to add that maddening headdress to "complete the ensemble." She'd given them a look that simply barked,  _No,_ and Leliana had jumped to her defence as Vivienne had attempted in vain to reason with her. If she had claimed one victory tonight, it had surely been that, but it wasn't nearly enough to satisfy her frustrations with the blighted event.

"You don't have to stay for the whole night," Leliana whispered, giving the warrior woman's elbow a knowing squeeze of reassurance. She kept her eyes forward as Josephine glanced their way from her place beside the throne, effectively disguising their conversation. "Feign exhaustion. I'll cover for you. The stir will excite the gathering and gain their sympathy, which should please our hosts." With that, Vivienne ended her brief speech and gracefully directed her hand in a welcoming gesture, summoning the Spymaster to the floor.

Alone with the Commander, Cullen awkwardly cleared his throat at her side, pulling down on the steel around his neck as if he were attempting to loosen his collar and let the heat of embarrassment escape. "Em, Cassandra," he mumbled, glancing at her for a moment before tearing his eyes away with a blush. He was unused to seeing her in such a form-fitting gown, just as she was deeply uncomfortable wearing one. "I want you to know that I despise these theatrics as much as you do. You don't have to take my arm for support. Maker knows you don't need it - u-unless you  _do_ , of course," he hurriedly amended, "then by all means, do. But I don't believe you require me to… I-I - Maker's Breath, I just don't see the  _point_ of walking in arm-in-arm."

Cullen's stammering insistence set her mind at ease. At least she was not the odd one out in this glorified dog show, but he was blissfully unaware of the game at play here. From the moment their entrance together had been proposed, she had caught on to the true nature behind their intentions. Walking in on the Commander's arm wasn't suggested in light of her precarious physical condition, for all their insistence and misdirection implied, but for the rumours and whispers it would stir among the noble class. It was a ploy so transparent that Cassandra had openly rolled her eyes when Madame Vivienne had presented the idea with all the casualness of a frequent diner recommending a dish at a pricey café.

The moment finally arrived and the wave struck shore on cue as the Seeker and the Inquisition's Commander were announced to the assembly. She gave him a solid shake of her head, walking through the door under her own power, but as she held her head high, the would-be Divine threw Cullen such a look as to cause him to leap forward, hooking his arm around Cassandra's own. In unison, the two grumbled under their breath and walked the few steps to Leliana's side, the redhead smiling in regretful acknowledgment of their predicament.

This felt pathetic. Looked pathetic. Wholly and absolutely  _pathetic_.

And if it looked like a duck, swam like a duck, and quacked like a duck, then it was probably damn-well pathetic.

Vivienne raised her chin, her gilded headdress catching the light of the massive candlelit chandelier overhead. "Dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies, distinguished gentlemen of honour: On behalf of the Inquisition, I and those standing with me tonight thank you all for your tireless thoughts and prayers for our great organisation's co-founder, and my esteemed colleague, Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, member of the royal Pentaghast family of Nevarra and Seeker of the Chantry, as well as the former Right Hand of Divine Justinia V, may her gentle soul rest in peace. Your gracious supplications to the Maker will not go unrecognised, nor unrewarded in these halls and indeed when the Sunburst Throne in Val Royeaux is again filled, by the grace of the Prophet Andraste."

All pairs of eyes which had at first rested on the Seeker swiftly shifted to Madame Vivienne with ravenous hunger, widening behind masks and upon painted faces alike. Of course the promise of favours in the future would excite this particular crowd, as if their prayers were so valuable that they demanded compensation of some variety. No, never mind the efforts of the Inquisitor and her Inner Circle, the Advisors, the Arcanist, the indentured Tevinter Magister…

Varric.

As Vivienne carried on and on, the knot in Cassandra's gut solidified, a free hand leaving her side to cradle her stomach. Forcing herself to bear the ache, she lifted her dark lids and scanned the crowd in small, surreptitious glances to avoid drawing the attention of those standing before the empty throne. Although she spotted many familiar, even friendly faces, from what she could tell, he was not present. All at once, she felt weaker, her patience and knees waning.

Leliana shook her head softly in her peripheral vision. "Not  _yet,_ Cassandra," she leaned in to whisper with care. "At the very least give it twenty minutes. They won't believe you, otherwise."

This was no act, however, and Cassandra feigned nothing. The fact that she had yet to see the dwarf since her awakening was enough to sour the evening, let alone her innards. She bit down on the inside of her cheek with force, fed up with her lost voice as she shook with quiet rage.

"Cassandra," Cullen winced quietly, "could you -  _ow_ \- please - let go?"

She loosened her fingers and jerked her hand from his forearm, unaware that she had been squeezing him in a grasp full of pent-up aggravation. The word "sorry" tried to escape her throat, but came out no stronger than a death rattle. The sound exasperated her so much that she thought she might put her fist right through the stone wall. _Why will no one speak of him to me?_ She seethed, fists clenching dangerously beneath crossed arms.  _Where in the Void_ is  _he?_

Just as Vivienne had wrapped up her prolonged, flowery statement to the gathering, the massive wood doors at the front of the hall creaked open as if in answer to her earlier prayers, freezing Cassandra in place…

Infuriatingly, a human male stepped inside and into the candlelight, followed by a small entourage of able-bodied men. His blue satin waistcoat was evocative of the sea, his frilled cravat of wealthy merchants and traders whose white sails adorned vessels too ostentatious for mere cargo. It did not take long for this man to draw the attention of the crowd as he passed through, his very presence new and exotic - and up for scrutiny by dozens of hungry sharks all ready to feast. Everything about the gentleman screamed "foreigner," but not so loudly as to draw challenges to his presence in the Main Hall. Whatever name with which he had arrived, to Cassandra, he was swiftly becoming the very distraction she needed in order to slip away.

Her slippers clicked softly on the rug, feet backing away agonisingly slowly toward the door that led to Inquisitor Lavellan's quarters. If she could just get changed out of this awful garment and give herself a moment alone to think…

"Ah," an Antivan voice carried to her ears from the direction of the throne. "Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet, is it not?"

Curiosity getting the better of her, the Seeker paused to spare a glance over her shoulder. The man from before now stood on the steps near the Ambassador, a hand on the pommel of his sword as he bowed with a smile too enchanting to be true.

"Yes, it must be you, milady!" his thick accent lauded when he rose to look at her more fully. "The resemblance to your dear mother is ever so striking!"

Cullen's low chuckle ended in a hard snort. "He's a dead man." He turned to share in the jest with Cassandra, only to find her several steps behind him.

Without warning, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back into the mix. "I'm begging you, Cassandra,  _don't leave me alone_  with them," he whispered with desperation. Surprised, she was about to pull her arm free and abandon him once again when Vivienne looked their way with a sharp turn of her head, so she hurriedly corrected her mannerisms to look as though she had been holding Cullen's arm all along.

The gentleman smiled again, thick brows rising animatedly over pale eyes. "Do you not recognise me, as well, my Lady?" he asked out of curiosity.

For the entire duration, Josephine had been holding the most puzzled expression. In fact, she held it so beyond the point of awkwardness that Cassandra and Cullen both found themselves shaking with silent mirth and trying to sober their expressions before anyone noticed by discretely punching one another in the shoulder.

"Ah, I apologise, but I'm afraid that I…" Josephine squinted for a brief moment before continuing, "Actually, you  _do_  look somewhat familiar, your Grace. Have we met, perchance?"

He gave her a slight tilt of the head - Maker, the Antivan was a charming one - and the smile broadened to display perfect white teeth. "Why yes, at a cotillion many years ago, although I do understand if you do not remember me specifically. I'm sorry to say that I did not particularly stand out among the many gentlemen of society attending."

Ever the polite woman, Josephine returned the smile after a moment. "Perhaps you sell yourself short, Lord Otranto. I do remember now."

"Ah! Was it my foolish presumptuousness or my terrible manners that jogged your memory?" He bowed again, taking her proffered hand. "I daresay they were in abundance, that evening."

As Josephine suppressed a nervous giggle, Cassandra stared in a state of confusion, a single brow arched dangerously high on her forehead. Damn her voice - if she could, she would have reached Josephine's side and begun interrogating the stranger right then and there.

Luckily, Leliana was available to do just that on her behalf. Taking a meaningful step forward, the Spymaster moved close to her friend. "Perhaps introductions are in order. I've never heard our Ambassador speak of you, milord."

 _Good,_  Cassandra smirked.  _Put him in his place, Leliana._

Approaching from the other side, Madame Vivienne entered the fold. "Yes, we should all like to get to know this engaging young man! My dear Josephine, how do you know our fine young gentleman, here?"

Josephine appeared to collect herself for a moment, though the anxiety in her voice was apparent. "Ah, he and I are… engaged, Lady Vivienne."

The Seeker felt the shock reverberate through her bones.

"Oh, I  _see_ ," Madame de Fer recovered rather quickly. "What news!"

As was the case when her nerves were fraying, the Ambassador spoke quickly. "I'm sure it's not very  _interesting_ news, Madame Vivienne. My parents arranged the betrothal not long ago-"

"-Along with my parents," Lord Otranto added. "And might I say, they have exquisite taste. They know me well and I am lucky for such an engagement with the most beautiful gem in all of Antiva."

"Who is independently successful," Leliana glared.

"And clever," Cullen put forth suddenly. "Watch out: she's got a tongue that could give you quite the lashing."

Lord Otranto grinned crudely, glancing at the only other man near the throne. "Oh, I pray this is so!"

Cassandra punched his shoulder again for good measure, more firmly this time. He let out a pained cry as he shot her a glance only a brother could give, and then immediately regretted looking her way when he saw the daggers unsheathed behind her eyes. "What, I - No, wait, I didn't mean it like  _that_." As if realising his mistake, the Commander blushed furiously and raised a finger, repeating to the Lord a touch too loud, "I-I didn't mean it like that, my lord. Maker, no! I wouldn't know what her tongue does or  _doesn't_  do. In that way. Or any way. I -  _Ow!"_ To a scowling Cassandra, he hissed, "I'm trying to fix it! Maker's Breath, I detest these ridiculous things!"

"Do not worry yourself, my good man," Lord Otranto inclined his head, restoring graciousness to the exchange. "I took your remark as was intended."

Stepping forward, Madame de Fer interlocked a genteel arm with that of the newcomer's. "Oh, you are such a  _charmer_ ," she chirped. "Might you do me the honour of accompanying me as I exchange pleasantries with our guests? I'd revel the opportunity to help make your acquaintances, perhaps even a mercantile connection or two from Orlais, if we're so lucky."

He smiled kindly at the mage, although the turn of his brow betrayed the slight he felt at being summarily ripped from his fiancée's presence. "After you," he gestured toward the sea of faces closing in around them, "and I thank you kindly for the consideration."

As soon as the two were lost among the throngs, Josephine swiftly turned about, fingers rising to her temples. Breathless and panicked, her soft wheezes echoed off the stone behind the throne. Pure Antivan poured from her mouth so quickly between ragged gasps of air that Cassandra had trouble following what the poor woman was saying.

To her credit, despite her remarks on Josephine's love life earlier that day, Leliana laid the flat of her hand between her friend's shoulder blades and ran it in soothing circles. "It's alright, Josie. Come. Let's talk it through over a glass of wine… A very tall, very  _full_  glass of wine," she said, leading her by the elbow toward the long tables full of hors d'oeuvres and entrées. With a few nods, the Ambassador followed in a daze, nervously holding her arms from her sides for the sake of balance.

In an odd daze themselves, the Commander and the Seeker watched the pair depart down the steps of the platform, neither one noticing immediately that they now stood alone. Once she did realise, Cassandra glanced down at her hand, which still rested on his proffered arm. Clearing her painfully sore throat, she drew her hand away with slight awkwardness, lacing her fingers together in front of her in a professional yet guarded manner.

He turned his head toward her then, reluctance in every aspect of his demeanour. "Ah… Would you care to… That is, I suppose we should…  _mingle_  for a bit." The word left his throat as though it had clawed its way through like a monster he'd vehemently held at bay, the battle against the very idea ultimately surrendered in a moment's defeat. Although this brought the ghost of a smile to her lips, she felt as much reluctance for rubbing elbows with the crowd as he did, if not more. At least she had an excuse not to make conversation on this occasion, but that wasn't very reassuring.

She had no opportunity to either deny the offer or accept it before a group of three guests dressed in ostentatious garb chose just that moment to approach. In an instant, she was peppered with questions from all sides.

"Lady Pentaghast! My, what good fortune for the Inquisition that you survive! Does it still pain you? We 'ave 'eard so many tales of your 'ealing and recovery!"

"Did you encounter the Prophet when you died? Did she leave that strange mark on your chest when she revived you? The one your gold pendant isn't covering properly?"

"Your gown is flattering, Lady Seeker. I wonder, did Madame de Fer lend it to you for the occasion? A Seeker's salary surely cannot afford such finery - and rumour has it that you no longer receive one, in any case."

Cullen shot the masked woman who had last spoken a look of derision, stepping to her defence quite literally as he positioned his body between herself and the curious attendees. "I beg your pardon, madames, but Lady Cassandra isn't taking questions at this time."

"Oh, but we  _must_ know-"

"It will have to wait," he interrupted, causing the nobles to stare as though he had grown a second head. "Apologies. Another time, ladies."

Summarily excused, they huffed and turned on their heels to descend the stairs, giggling to one another as they raised their voices loud enough to be heard by those around them and, of course, those they'd left behind. "She looks like a costumed bear performing for the circus," remarked one. Another responded, "Then that would make the Commander her handler." The third said something as well, but by then, they were too far away for Cassandra to make out anything more than the titters and delighted squeals that followed.

She would have confronted them. Had she still possessed the capacity, or indeed the will, the Nevarran knew she would have told them exactly where they could stick their prying questions and unnecessary comments. Why in the Maker's name would Orlesian nobles feel the need to play The Game with  _her_ , of all people? Simply because she was the guest of honour at this ridiculous affair?

Fine. They could have it. She didn't want to be here, anyway.

Having witnessed the odd exchange, Inquisitor Lavellan strolled over to her military leaders, small hands hugging her elbows close to her lithe form. As the music played with the acoustics off the high ceiling and the guests chattered amongst themselves below, the elf traded with her a rueful smile. "I heard what they said.  _Rude_ … You should hear the things they're asking me. 'Ooh, Inquisitor, I see the Maker at last saw fit to abolish those heathen markings from your face!'" she mimicked through pursed lips.

"Who said that?" Cullen nearly barked, glaring around the hall. "Say the word and I'll chain them up for your judgement in the morning."

Lavellan grinned at his suggestion, waving a hand in dismissal. "It's probably not smart to give them  _more_  reasons to call me a savage."

He smirked in good nature, puffing his chest out beneath his dark mantle. "And then we arrest them, too. Honestly, Inquisitor, I'm appalled; you should know how this goes by now." Once he had successfully managed to get her to laugh, he smiled in satisfaction, crossing his arms. "Really, though, is there anything I can do for you?"

She lifted a fair brow, cocking her head toward her shoulder. "...Actually, I was wondering if you had noticed how poorly Cassandra is," Lavellan said, nodding to the Seeker. "Does she look a little pale to you?"

Riled, Cassandra straightened her back and nearly drilled a hole through the elf with a hard stare. She wasn't sure she cared for that insinuation, as if she was visibly weak. It smacked her pride to think she could be seen in that light, let alone that Lavellan hadn't even tried to say this privately.

"Hmm. I agree," Cullen frowned, scrutinising the warrior beside him. The Seeker's jaw dropped, her brows lowering in anger as he shook his head. "Maker's Breath, Cassandra. Are you about to faint?"

Scoffing, she clenched her fist and raised it -

"Perhaps you should go lie down," the Herald hinted. "My bed is closer if you need to rest for a bit."

Cassandra's face fell blank, her fist going slack.

"A wise suggestion, Inquisitor," Cullen nodded, a twinkle in his honeyed eyes. He winked to drive the point home. "That might be for the best…"

Her eyes darted between the two, both holding the same wry expression while they waited for her to make her move.

That was all she needed. Awash with relief, the Seeker stole a parting glance at all in attendance before she picked up her silken skirts and darted for the door at her back.

 _Ugh_. Thank Andraste that was over.

**~oOo~**

_Andraste's ass, please be here. Please be here. Please…!_

Beyond the repetitive prayer echoing through his mind, Varric could only make out the sounds of his own winded breaths and the abrasive thrum of adrenaline pumping through his veins. He hadn't stayed long enough for Cole to explain, nor even to finish speaking. All that mattered was that very first statement:

_Cassandra is awake._

He didn't know what that entailed. He'd not given himself the time to consider any of the multiple interpretations of that simple statement. Honestly, it didn't make much of a difference how it had happened, just that it had.

He would see Cassandra again. Nothing and no one could prevent him.

The stairs seemed endless, and more than once he'd nearly lost his footing and tumbled over the edge. Guard rails were too much to ask for on a narrow flight of stairs, apparently. Pausing only to assure his direction, he pressed forward, the music becoming clearer with every step. Crystalline glasses clinked, humans conversed, tuned strings played upon set scales, candlelight bled through the bottom of the doors like a golden rug on the top landing… And somewhere inside stood the Seeker. He was sure of it.

The door was heavy, but he was determined. It could have been chained from the other side and still he felt he would have torn the thing from its massive hinges just to break through. Light spilled over his face and he squinted against the sun contained within.

Maker it was hot in here. So many bodies, roaring fireplaces, burning wicks, the energy sitting heavy in the air. As he closed the door in his wake, his lungs begged him to let them catch up, and reluctantly he gave in. Gasping for air, he doubled over and gripped his knees, striving to listen closely for even a mention of her.

"Varric?"

Still panting, he turned toward the call of his name, too breathless to speak. His heart in his throat, Varric managed a brief wave of acknowledgement toward the far corner of the foyer. "Hero," he uttered, unable to say more.

"Maker's Balls, you bloody bastard, where've you been?!" Blackwall rose from the chair and was at his side in four great strides. Unceremoniously, Varric was dragged by the arm to the shadowed shelter and forced into the chair. "We've been looking for you all day," he chided, squatting before him and laying a hand on his knee for balance.

He was shaking, or trembling, or drifting somewhere in between. The excuse was on the tip of his tongue, but it would waste too much time explaining where he had been. "Cassandra," he blurted instead, his eyes raising to meet the warrior's, brimming with hope. "The Kid told me. Is it true?"

It felt like an Age had passed before Blackwall at last nodded. "Yeah," he tried to smile, "it's true. I think. Depends on what he said."

Varric's heart burst. "Maker's Breath," he practically laughed, hysterics bubbling in his belly. "She's alright? She actually pulled through?!"

"Well, more or less," the man shrugged. "It's not a full recovery, but she's persevering. Wouldn't expect anything less from her."

"'Persevering'? What is that,  _what_ \- how bad is it?"

Blackwall narrowed an eye, sizing the dwarf up for a moment. Varric did the same to fill the gap, suddenly noticing just how drunk the man was. "She's fine, mostly," he reassured him, turning his head to the side to belch into his sleeve. "They think she was a little shaken up, but Bodahn said that-"

"They're  _here?_ " Varric almost shot from his seat. "Where?! Shit, I could  _kiss_  those guys!"

Blackwall tightened his grip around his friend's knee to keep him still. "No, they left together earlier. Sorry, lad, we tried to find you!  _I_  thought you'd up and fled the bloody scene! Here," he offered, pulling a silverite flask from his belt, "you look like you need this."

He shook his head and shuddered. "No thanks," he pushed it away. "I've gotta get to the Seeker."

It was the warrior's turn to shake his head, now. Scratching at his jet-black beard, he revealed, "Don't think I've seen her for a good hour. Cullen said she took a spell to go for a lie down."

"Where?"

"The tower quarters - whoa, hang on a second," Blackwall shoved his shoulder, pushing him back down into the chair, "you can't just casually saunter on up there! Leliana's been hunting the damned keep for you and from what I heard, you don't want to cross her path."

Impatience flooding over, Varric growled, "Look, Hero, even if  _Hawke_  walked out of a rift right now to block me, that  _still_  wouldn't stop me. Well, probably," he added before angrily shaking away the admission. "Let her be pissed off with me for all I care! She can't just hold me back."

"That's just it: I think she's hellbent on keeping you two apart for the time being," he said, rubbing at his cheekbone. "She's lurking around in there right now, just waiting for you to burst on the scene so she can corner you."

"Then I'll need a distraction, won't I?" the dwarf suggested, his tone conveyed perfectly between clenched teeth. "Hero - do I owe you, or do you owe me? I can't remember who's racked up more favours at this point."

An energy, perhaps even a sense of solidarity passed between them, and all at once, Blackwall's bloodshot blue eyes crystalised, an idea brewing steadily in his mind. "...You don't have to ask, lad. Brothers don't owe each other anything," he sighed, looking toward the entryway. Under his breath, he muttered, "I didn't want to so much as get a  _look_ at the man, let alone talk to him, but it'd make the kind of scene you're after…" His decision made, the man cleared his throat and stood, hesitating momentarily while he thought aloud. "I'd bet my life some Orlesian bastard's gone and passed out somewhere. Borrow a mask, invite Otranto to join me and the boys… Yeah. Should work."

Varric had no idea who this Otranto guy was, but he didn't have enough time to ask, either. "Sure. What do you need me to do?"

His friend nodded once, glancing down briefly before setting his shoulders and letting out a nervous sigh. "Just hang back. When you hear the commotion, keep to the shadows and snake your way behind the crowd. And don't - and I mean  _don't_ \- let Leliana see you. She'll catch on and gut me like a fucking fish for conspiracy."

And just like that, Hero strode forward and disappeared behind the stone, presumably to locate a mask for whatever plan laid in store.

Minutes passed. Varric clamped one hand over the other in an effort to keep still and just breathe in the moment, his heart already halfway up the tower's wooden scaffolding. Maker, she was alive - and  _cured_ , by the sound of things. It had all been so crazy to hope for, but it was real. This was actually happening. It was almost too much. Nothing ever turned out this good for him…

Maybe there was a catch. Cassandra was shaken by the experience. Was she in shock or something? Andraste's ass, who could blame her if she was? Unlike him, the Seeker had been staring death in the face for what felt like months. So many times, she had tried to talk about her mortality, about her fears of dying, trying to make peace with a fate that seemed inevitable, but he had been too frightened to even acknowledge the possibility, going so far as to shut her down before the conversation could start in earnest. But that was rub: she had come to accept it, however terrifying it was, because she had faith that the Maker would guide her to His halls… But now, she suddenly had her whole life ahead of her again.

What did something like that do to a person? An experience like that…

"…What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing you couldn't handle, a strong young man like yourself, my lord."

He didn't recognise the first voice. That accent was Antivan for sure; Varric would stake the world on it. Probably that Otranto-or-other that Hero had mentioned. Blackwall's cocky invitation was obviously the second voice, and as he concentrated on them, he could make out the anxious, hurried speech of Ruffles. She sounded like a nug that had been lifted off the ground by its ears.

"Okay, so it goes like this, yeah?" he heard Buttercup explain to what must have been a growing audience. "You take this and stand 'ere, then Dorian goes over there and Bull over there. Black - the man with the black beard under the mask, he goes off runnin' this way an' then you run at the wall an' do a backflip. Shit's easy, right? Loser chugs the lot!"

Varric unleashed a knowing grin, his eyes misting. Damn, what he wouldn't give to watch what was coming next… But he had more important matters to attend to.

He stood and pressed himself against the wall, his footsteps muffled to nothingness. Poking his head around the corner, he saw the multitudes gathered a third of the way into the hall, their backs turned as they watched the companions just beyond his usual haunt at the fireplace. As the crowd pressed in on themselves, a narrow passage opened behind them, all in shadow. Varric took a step inside -

And pressed himself back against the wall inside the foyer.

His heart racing, he blew out a tense sigh and stared up at the roof.  _Maker, just my shitty luck,_ he thought. Leliana was directly in his path, standing by the tables and half hidden in shadow, her hard leather gauntlets crossed firmly over her chest. She had one eye on the proceedings, and another on the suspiciously open path between the main door and the one at the end of the hall which led to the Herald's chambers. Shit, it was like she could  _smell_ the whole setup and was counting on Varric to slip up in his haste. Well, he was a spymaster, too; Nightingale was going to have just as much luck with her plan as he was.

Just as Varric was considering using Bianca's grappling hook to scale the outer wall of the tower in the dark, his thoughts came around just in time to listen to the beginning of the very drinking game he himself had concocted. Bootsteps raced. Arrows deflected. The people oohed as the roar of arcane fire lit the hall. A bang, a whoop, a bowstring twang. There were a few cries from the audience then, and the sound of a body slamming full-force into the stone floor caused the rest of them to join in.

At the rustling of gowns and the rush of footsteps, Varric peered carefully around the wall's edge. Josephine was beside herself somewhere among them, her distress causing Leliana's back to straighten in alarm. Just as she turned her head toward him, the dwarf ducked back behind the stone, closing his eyes in a silent hope that she hadn't seen him.

" _I demand satisfaction, ser!"_

"My lord, I am certain it was an accident-!"

"Name the time and place!"

" _Stop this!"_

Curiosity at last got the better of Varric, and he strained to get a view from where he stood. Unfortunately, humans were far too tall to allow for it. What the hell was going on?

"Are you all right, Lord Ortranto?"

His heart skipped, nearly leaping from his chest. That was Leliana's voice, carrying from the epicentre of whatever was happening. To his amazement, when he looked back toward the dimly lit passage, it was vacated. The path to Cassandra was clear, all attention focused in the opposite direction.

Varric didn't waste his slim window of opportunity. As the fight escalated, he flew forward and hugged the shadows, tunnel vision like the sight of Bianca's scope trained on the far door. He dodged chairs, ignored the sweet scents of desserts and appetizers, and pushed past the pang in his ankle, the goal clear. Before he could say "just like old times," his fingers grasped the handle.

The door opened seemingly of its own accord.

From the other side of the threshold, Solas stood gawking at Varric for a moment, his brows raised.

Desperate to duck out of sight, he pushed past the elf and raced to the first step. As an afterthought, he turned to find the man backing into the Main Hall, his narrow eyes trained on the dwarf.

"Not a word, Chuckles," he breathed, his eyes trailing up the hundred or so wooden stairs.

He didn't smile, nor did he acknowledge the merchant prince at all. It was astounding just how coolly that man could play the part of casual innocence. "I would not dream of it," he muttered under his breath as he pulled the door firmly shut in his wake.

**~oOo~**

Five hundred tears from empty stares, and five hundred more would join them. Ten thousand breaths, each hollow and pained, and thousands more would pass in unobstructed silence.

Solas had been accommodating, listening to the inflection in her brows, the turn of her mouth, the depth of her unspoken grief and frustrated confusion after another cursory examination was complete. The night itself was cold and bright, casting midnight shadows on the mountains beyond the balcony whereupon she stood. Braving the chill, he had stood beside her not to fill the void, but instead to listen to the hitch in her breath, to mark her improvement, to gauge their success and note her slow progress.

He'd said but one thing to her for the entire duration, and the words stuck in her mind like the lyric of a song:

_There was a time when I'd have thought the people of this Age were not the kind to brave such trials and tribulations. But times have changed without me, leaving me to wonder whether I've been fair in my misgivings and assumptions. With every step, they have shown me painful truths that chronicle my ignorance…_

The elf had fallen silent again, taking in the sight of the full moons before turning soundlessly toward the interior. For a time Cassandra stayed, drinking in her surroundings and bathing in the stillness they bestowed upon her like blessings of unconditional love.

She had survived when all else had died. Who was she to ask why? The Maker had His plans, held no obligation to share them.  _Do not question_ , the tainted templar in Val Royeaux had said,  _you are called to a higher purpose_.

But all she had were questions. Maker knew she was never one to keep silent if she had a choice.

The cold had not moved her indoors. She could have stood out there for hours and not heeded the sting of the chill at all. Cassandra had missed the feeling for, oh, so long… No, as she made her way back inside, her mind was drawn toward shedding the slender dress and crawling beneath the heavy comforter to shut the waking world away for a while. Wanting to hold on to the smell of evergreens and freshly fallen snow, she left the stained glass balcony doors ajar as she migrated to the soft comfort of her borrowed bed, cradled in darkness, the moonlight her only source of light.

There she sat, sinking into the mattress, her mind mercifully silent as she ran her hand down the low dip of her neckline. The gold embroidery scratched at the softening calluses of her fingertips. As much as she hated to admit it, the garment she wore was finer than anything Uncle Vestalus had ever hung in her wardrobe, indeed more than anything she would have dreamed to wear herself. She remembered the old promise she had made herself as a teenager ripe with rebellious nature, that she would never adorn a gown again until the day of her wedding. Still, if she wasn't forced into parading around the keep in it, she might've enjoyed the experience more than she had.

Coming back to herself a bit, Cassandra noticed that she was once again thumbing the golden sun hanging from her neck. Although it was merely a force of habit, the realisation brought a hot tear to her eye, and in an instant, her hands joined behind her neck to unclasp the offending jewellery. It fell to her lap and she picked it up from the silk, her fist curling around it until the dull ends of the rays felt as though they might pierce flesh. Sucking in a ragged breath, she slammed the gift down on the nightstand with all her anger and shame, her hands cradling her head as she leant over her knees and physically forced back the tears barely held at bay. Fingers flew to the stays in her hair and she picked out the black pins, throwing them to the floor with abandon. The braided crown at last collapsed and fell, the end drawing a line down her front as if dividing her in two.

The way by which the dress came undone couldn't be found, and too tired to care any longer, she gave up.

It was in that moment that the night breeze shifted, stirring the hair resting high on her forehead.

The door had opened from below, but Cassandra had not noticed until she heard it shut. There was a long pause while she strained her ears to listen, an electricity humming through the air. Someone was standing at the bottom landing, and for a moment, she convinced herself that the Ambassador had come to pull her back to the party below.

Josephine's steps did not sound like that, though. Slow in stride, the wood creaking under a weight more dispersed than her own… Cullen, maybe.

Speechless, soundless, not at all like the Commander's loud announcement at his every entry, asking whether she was decently clothed. Leliana, then…

The sigh of a man as he reached the top step, staring from the shelter of darkness. Perhaps Solas, or another mage sent to evaluate her condition…

There was no need to guess once he moved into the moonlight, his broad shoulder and wide jaw outlined, breath misting beneath eyes of hopeful disbelief.

She shifted only to sit up straight, blinking several times under the strain of reality.  _Another dream, another trap,_  her mind warned, trying to recall when she had fallen asleep. Once before, she had run her sword through a creature in this very disguise. She would do it again if she had to, but she didn't relish the idea as much the second go around… Maker, did he know how good it had felt to kill him, demon or not?

At first, Cassandra was sure she had imagined him draw nearer, steps shaking and hesitant in a pulse of their own design. But there was yearning in them, too, and subconsciously, the same desperate plea hit her like many such prayers she had whispered in heated combat.

_Please don't let it linger. If this how I die, let it be quick._

It was not quick, however. It was slow, drawn-out, painful… as real and lucid as she had feared, and now he stood only a metre shy of touching her, waiting perhaps for something to click in his mind. Her hands fell to either side of her, pleating the bedding as heat radiated from her chest and engulfed her face. A blush. A flush of colour borrowed from a pallette of spring petals. The longer he continued to stare, the brighter she blossomed.

If Varric Tethras had words, they eluded him so thoroughly that for once, she missed hearing them scrape gratingly past his teeth. He said nothing, instead giving way to the fragility of his stance. Without warning, he crumbled and fell to his knees, lost somewhere between a laugh and a sob at her feet. He shook his head, silently lamenting the lump in his throat, unable to speak.

Sharing in the predicament brought a small laugh to her sudden smile. She pinched her hip sharply in a test, and now assured of her own wakefulness, Cassandra rested a hand along his jaw. There was a week's growth there, and heavy bags surrounded his eyes as though age had at last caught up to him.

It didn't matter anymore where he had been all this time, or why he hadn't come to her until now. Now was all that mattered.

Varric said nothing as his hand reached up and enveloped her own, her thumb running soothing circles against his stubbled cheek. His hands were larger and wider than she'd previously taken stock of, as was everything with him. Fingers, shoulders, neck, his empty head, his lies, his tales, his heart… Dwarf in height only, the rest of him was more than enough to make up the difference.

She could feel his jaw unclench, tense shoulders slumping as he sighed, the plume of air from his lungs cascading over the silks draping from her knees down to the floor. Hesitating only for the span of another deliberate breath, he slid toward her on his knees and rested the palms of his hands on her waist, holding on as though he held a priceless relic instead of a woman. His eyes drifted over her in silent confirmation, but stopped in the centre of her chest, shock and woe visible in the turn of his brow. There was no hesitation as his touch traced the sweltering blister in the shape of a Tranquil's scar, though he was gentle in his exploration, and she brushed her braid aside to aid his view. Lips moved in the shapes of words not uttered, yet she understood them all the same.

Five hundred tears from empty stares, and five hundred more would join them. The first of them fell not from her eyes, but his, and all at once, she rejected every notion of former and forgotten love.

He had ordered her to hold onto a thought until he returned, and now she let it loose with all abandon.

There was no time to reconsider, no time for precautions or second guesses.  _You must think before you act,_ they had said. They knew nothing, and no sooner had she lifted his chin than she had moved into his arms, her own wrapping around his neck. She entangled her fingers in his hair, pulling it loose and throwing the tie far to join her pins scattered on the floor.

He didn't stop to ask questions before he kissed her.

His body spoke plainly, even if his words seldom did. He hadn't been ready for this, and yet he adapted himself around her, just as he had from the moment they first met, finding ways to stay on her good side and others to torment her endlessly. Cassandra was the same as she'd always been with him in that moment, demanding and fierce, coaxing what she could from him and believing the rest like a fool. And Maker, if she was a fool, then let her be foolish, at least for a while.

Varric was warmth and strength, sweetness and longing, desperation and purpose. He wrapped himself around her until the cold was banished from her bones, bleeding emotions like a mortal wound he couldn't feel as he lay dying in her arms. But the battle was over, and if death came for him now, he could pass at least knowing that they'd won.

Her kiss migrated to the softness between neck and shoulder, his taste returning like a bittersweet memory. She tugged at the buttons down his coat front, running rough fingers through chest hair and pulling sharply where it corresponded with the amulet's raised blister. She felt as he winced, pushing the shoulder of the dress down her arm. He froze for a moment as he traced the port wine stain of a new scar, marking the spot where the glowing red lyrium had stabbed through her flesh.

The acknowledgement of her new wounds only spurred her on more fervently than before, and she found the same place on him as where she had been scarred, sinking her teeth into his flesh, in a sense letting him share in her pain. He would feel it as harshly and as fully as she had, or he would never understand just how deeply she longed to share every single pain, every joy, every milestone with him, now and always.

He sucked in a breath between clenched teeth and responded by picking her up bodily, tossing her on the bed like a sack of flour in an attempt to make her stop. Varric didn't like her being so rough with him.  _Good._  Cassandra didn't like being treated like a porcelain doll that might break if handled too much. She was sick to death of it and welcomed his ire.

He shrugged off his coat angrily and threw it to the floor. "You've got a lot of explaining to do, Seeker," he growled.

 _Yes._ This was what she needed, what she desired from him. All the sympathy she had received was enough to drive her mad. She was the one who had lost the fight with the Carta. She was the one who never listened to everyone's better judgment in the aftermath. She was the one going around and letting the red lyrium poison her with fire towards her friends and allies. She was the one who had killed Samson, the one who had followed his recommendation to consume more red lyrium. And all she had gotten from the moment she'd emerged from her coma were concerned glimpses and gentle hands.

Climbing on the bed, he fixed her with a glare. "I thought I told you to stay put," he rasped. "I think my exact words were, 'Sit tight and behave yourself.' What part of that sounds even  _remotely_  like, 'Go find yourself a dragon and almost get yourself killed?'"

Cassandra grinned. She wrapped her fist around the white dress and pulled upward as she leaned back, the skirt falling from her bent knees toward curvaceous hips.

He shook his head. "You think you're gonna distract me with those long, sexy, human legs of yours?" Varric spat hoarsely. "Not a damned chance." He kissed her, pouring all his aggravation into it, her hands grasping at the cotton lapels of his loose tunic. "Start talking."

Cassandra parted her knees and leaned into his face, her breath hot on his neck. She wasn't going to explain shit to him. Never mind that she couldn't regardless, and if he hadn't gotten the memo, she didn't care to enlighten him on the matter.

Varric pressed her flat and ran a hand over her knee, fingertips brushing her inner thigh. "How do you think I felt? Losing sleep, sitting in here way too long while you're passed out and glowing, praying even though I know it won't do any good?" Hiking her skirts higher, he shoved her legs apart. "They kicked me out and practically revoked my Inquisition membership card. You know what that does to a guy, Seeker? I'm sick of getting booted from your side, you hear me?"

Running a hand through his loose hair, she grasped a tuft and yanked the ginger strands, forcing him to reach up and wrap massive fingers around her wrist. Fed up, the dwarf leaned over her and trapped both of her hands above her head on the mattress. "I'm not done with you, yet," he said through a snarl, but she cut him off with another kiss. He drank her in, deepening it as he pressed his hips firmly against her own. She could feel every groove of him through his trousers, for he shared in the knowledge of his passion freely. "I'm  _still_  mad. And you have  _no right_  looking this good right now… Andraste's ass, you smell _really_ nice."

His lips said one thing and did another, contradicting his quiet tirade entirely. It was a game of catch and release, of tether and tease, giving voice to all his frustrations and hers as they ground each other to a pulp both physically and verbally. He groaned, pressing against her so forcefully that she felt real pleasure for the first time uncoupled from pain. A soft moan tried to push past her lips, but it floated away like a wisp on the cold night breeze as his mouth found hers.

"I would have died with you," Varric whispered on her skin, opening the neck of her dress. He moved inches lower, kissing the mark of Andraste's holy symbol. "And I wouldn't have liked it one bit," he added, brushing lips and stubble against the sensitive skin of her breast, "because you know how much I  _hate_  dying… Too painful, too permanent." He meandered his way down to her navel, the dress preventing his path of soft kisses. Not deterred, he pushed her skirt higher, encouraging her new silken undergarments to the side. "Dying's not really my favourite thing, Seeker."

She had just enough time to flinch at the sudden chill before his mouth enveloped her with heat. Cassandra arched and gasped, a hand flying to his hair. Although one leg remained trapped beneath his massive shoulder, she rested the other upon his back and gripped the nearest pillow while he toyed with her.

She knew what true pain felt like, and this… this was far from it. Fingers traced up her thigh, igniting powerful nerves while he explored her without restriction, without malice or contention, every inch toward his destination weakening her resolve like the cruelest torture. He was determined to make her talk, to force a confession of her sins and transgressions against him, and while he was aware of his own, he'd long since made his amends. No, she would do the same, or he would continue to prise it from her, one way or another.

Voiceless moans passed through her throat, thrumming out a lost echo across the stately bedroom, a cry orphaned to his will. The crest was in sight as she felt the pulsing rise, her breath hitched, back arched, body strained. He pulled backed just before the breaking point and let her loose, cutting the rope and letting her plummet to the base of that mountain.  _No,_  she begged silently, trying to force him back down. She felt his exhalation on her thigh, his smile as he brushed against her bared skin.

"Promise me," he uttered, eyes closed as he fought the tears his voice could not conceal, "that you won't go chasing after dragons." He looked up at her, the smile fading under the thin strain of grief. "You don't have to prove yourself all the damn time, Seeker… Promise me."

Pausing to weigh the seriousness in his tone, Cassandra propped herself up on her elbows, searching his eyes. He had been upset with her before, but that was missing from his gaze now. Breaking the stare, he kissed her thigh tenderly, resting his cheek there for a time.

"Say something, baby," he pleaded, fighting a lump in his throat. "I need to hear you… Please, say something to me…"

Ten thousand breaths, each hollow and pained, and thousands more would pass in unobstructed silence. Hearing his need, the Seeker leaned up and answered to it in the only manner she could.

Stroking his cheek, she lured him up toward her and brought his full weight down upon her form. With a delicate hand, she untied his trouser stays, freeing him of the cloth remaining between them. Laying a kiss upon his rough cheek, Cassandra Pentaghast closed her eyes and placed her lips beside his ear, swallowing hard against the searing pain that threatened to choke her words.

"…I… promise… you… Varric," she mouthed as she let the air pass from her lungs.

It was all she could manage: soft words, a simple covenant. Barely an utterance, but no less meaningful.

Nothing went unspoken between them after that, though no words were ever exchanged. They left their hurt at the foot of the bed, composing a bittersweet sonnet with no opening and no conclusion. They took turns in verse, setting rhythm and rhyme to a familiar tune, all the while making it their own.

Some time later, curled against her form, the dwarf promised in return to watch over her, giving her peace of mind that he would remain by her side, should the nightmares return.

And as she flirted with the edge of sleep, Cassandra pondered on the significance of his final, whispered vow. Were they reunited? Had they mended their broken bond? Did it matter, whatever name they eventually assigned to what they truly were at heart?

She succumbed to her dreams at last, Varric's steady heartbeat beneath her cheek and his warm arms around her the last conscious sensations she registered before the black curtain fell over her soft brown eyes.

 _Run, Cassie,_  said a familiar voice, echoing far off in the distance.  _Don't look back…_

And, Maker save her, that's just what Cassandra did.


	33. Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Since her conception, whether nation or not, Nevarra has been a soil soaked in the blood of her political victims. It was from within Lord Hector's stronghold in Nevarra City that the Prophet Andraste was taken by the Imperium following her husband's now-infamous betrayal. When Maferath returned to Ferelden, he divided Nevarra for his three sons to rule. However, upon discovery of his father's treachery, Verald, who ruled the lands surrounding the City, was forced out of his position, which the population had determined was procured by means of outright evil and shameless nepotism. His supporters in court, or at least those of whom remained, were slain, carving into stone an Ages-old tradition.

Nevertheless, it was nurture, not nature, that taught Cassandra Pentaghast to always suspect even those closest to her. It was experience, not instinct, that trained her to swing first and ask questions later. She was not born a warrior, instead sheltered from that path by parents who knew the world would take more from their children than they were mature enough to give. They had tried their best, yet were not immune to their homeland's unquenchable thirst. The fate of her family had instilled a harsh truth in the lone surviving daughter: If she were to ever take sides, whether in war or civil debate, then she must vigilantly ensure that her perspective wasn't slanted or askew. To be certain of that, she must be as steadfast in her faith in the Maker as Andraste was on the night she was lit aflame.

She had always questioned her faith, for that was the only way to examine the justness of her actions. Never the Maker Himself, but her belief in where He chose to lead her. However, the trouble with the Maker was that He had turned his back on the world for its corrupt ways, so any chance at a direct answer was virtually nonexistent. Still, although she could not rely on His voice, she had a decades-long trust in His presence, despite what the Chantry had to say on the matter. Cassandra had to believe He still cared, or why else would He promise to return to once more let His glory shine upon His creation? Nevertheless, she had let herself be guided by the principles on which the Chantry was founded, and not so much the political and religious game the institution had warped into over the Ages.

Moreover, and perhaps ironically, Cassandra had taken pride in her ability to remain humble. She could admit better than others when she was wrong, and was willing to be corrected. But, oh Maker, that wasn't offering much comfort, anymore. If anything, her experiences with the Inquisition had shown her quite plainly that she must have stepped off the path at some point. Why else had she been cut down like she had? Why else would the Maker see fit to place such trials on her back?

If she had gone wrong somewhere, then it must follow that she was being corrected, but… But if that were the case, then why cure her when she still felt that she had learned nothing from her experience? Why was His instruction this time so unclear? If what she had endured was part of some grand plan, then what had been the objective? Had it all been for nothing?

Surely the Maker would not set her alight just to watch her burn…

...Or would He, just as assuredly as any bloodthirsty Nevarran from times past?

**~oOo~**

It was nearly dawn, but even with the sun on the cusp of mounting the Frostback peaks far off in the distance, Dorian Pavus couldn't tell night from day for all the miles of low clouds blanketing the mountain sky. Yesterday's wind chill had promised to deliver quite the spectacle, and in that he was not disappointed. A thick layer of half frozen mud draped over the grounds while icy slush drenched the battlements, and he shivered to think of the people residing in chambers still sporting gaping holes in their roofs. Whatever poor souls were assigned to roof repair would surely have to contend with what the storm had left behind, and he didn't envy the workload waiting for them.

He let out a tempered sigh through his nose to shake off those wearied thoughts and poured the tea, warming it at a light touch with a single finger on the pot. Steam rose up and stroked his cheekbones, the scent a pleasant sensation against the lingering fragrances of soaps, dry ink, treated parchment, and varnished wood. Pouring another cup, he added copious amounts of cream and two large sugar lumps to the first, stirring quietly and taking care not to nick the porcelain with his silverite spoon. He set the teapot down before adding cream to his own, setting the finished teacup in her outstretched hand.

The Inquisitor sat upon his fabric chair, having slept there every night since she'd given priority of the comfortable, stately Tower Room to Cassandra. Lavellan disliked her quarters, he knew, so she'd surely felt no bitterness at parting with them for the time being. She was used to  _aravels_ , or huts, or whatever it was the Dalish used for adequate shelter in their settlements, and the tower was apparently too decadent for this quaint creature of the woods. Although he knew her avoidance wasn't due to the room's association with a certain apostate just downstairs, he couldn't help wondering whether she had found her time away from it somewhat of a blessing in disguise. Or perhaps she wished to be closer to the elf still currently dreaming down on the ivory sofa, a blanket falling half to the floor as he slept the early morning hours away, even if she couldn't crawl in beside him, anymore.

He fervently hoped he was wrong about that. Maybe, given the outcome, it was best to avoid the topic of Solas entirely.

She blinked her thanks to him, raising her cup in a silent toast after she tore her eyes from the window. His lips pressed in a smile of acknowledgment as he kept the silence, sipping gingerly at the brew, slightly spiced with notes of ginger and cinnamon with just enough cream to match the tone of his scholarly hands. If he airated his mouth after the first swallow, Dorian could even detect a touch of vanilla in the blend.

The wind outside howled past the glass and shook it in its ancient jambs, plastering smears of sleet against the pane. They watched without remark as the half-frozen droplets were blown sideways and downwards, both simultaneously inching closer to the candles to stave off the mountain cold. The South was such a brisk, chilly little region; not exactly an ideal vacation spot. He watched as she pulled the blanket over her lap and immediately grew jealous, grabbing the tassels brushing the floor and throwing the extra length over his legs. Lavellan made no comment, though. She was a sharer, after all.

"Is Bull still in his quarters?" she asked softly, green eyes still trained on the ugly weather.

He blew on the tea slightly before his next sip, brows furrowing. "Presumably, the unlucky beast," he replied after a swallow. "I wouldn't worry, Inquisitor. He should be warm."

Lavellan smiled softly at him and his brow raised a touch in response. "So I hear."

Dorian let a hint of disgust creep into his sigh. "Ah, of course," he sneered beneath his mustache. "I knew I shouldn't have opened my bloody mouth around Vivienne."

She fell silent after that, any traces of mirth he'd thought she entertained missing from her face. They sipped and sat for a while in a companionable quiet, punctuated only by the single caw of a raven from above, followed by a rustling of wing and feathers. Absently, he rubbed at his neck, trying to massage the soreness from his stiff spine after a rough night.

"You slept on the floor again, didn't you?" she called him out, brows lifting sadly.

He nodded. Of course he had; what was he, a cad? "And leave you here to sleep on my armchair unsupervised? Surrounded by my precious books? How could I possibly trust you alone with them?" Dorian stole another sip, the porcelain hot on his lips. Truth be told, he hadn't minded beyond the physical discomfort of it all. It was that, or try finding room beside Bull with all the Chargers passed out in a disorganised pile around him. And what with all the snoring and farting they were doing, the hard floor at Lavellan's feet was more than preferable to the nightmares his ears and nose had been subjected to on other occasions.

"I think we should go somewhere hot, what with this awful weather," the elf mused aloud. "There's still time before the end of the war, even if I'm cutting it a bit close."

He couldn't resist. "Looking to 'warm' up before our last battle, are you, Lavvy dearest?"

The ghost of a laugh moved past her lips. "...Yeah," she nodded. "Sounds nice, doesn't it?" Her brows lowered in a frown as she took a sip, mulling over something to herself.

"...Care to share with the rest of the class?"

"Hmm? ...Oh," she caught herself, resetting her features. "I forgot how easy I am to read without…"

Her voice trailed off, but he knew what she had been about to say: Her blood writing, that distinctly Dalish tradition of tattooing one's face with the markings of a god. Without it, she wore her emotions like a classical thespian switching between emotive masks for a paying audience. Every little crinkle and brow lift was visible now, the deep green branches stripped from her fair face like the mightiest tree in all the woods had been chopped to pieces and carted away for mere kindling. Not wanting to stir up more painful memories than she was already living again in all likelihood, he let the thought die and decided to alter course.

Or at least he would have done, had she not spoken first.

"You don't have to come with me, this time."

The shock stabbed him, his jaw slackening for a moment before he could gather his thoughts, although they spilled out regardless of his input. "You think I'd just let you waltz completely out of my sight? Lavvy, do you know me  _at all?_ Hush. Drink your tea." Dorian nodded in satisfaction as a gentle huff escaped his lungs. "The nerve that you would even  _suggest_  leaving  _me_ behind…"

"I'm serious."

Pausing mid-sip, he arched a dangerous brow, giving the elf a careful once-over. "No, you're not."

She pursed her lips for the span of a few heartbeats, a stubborn will shining in her eyes. "Dor," she argued her case just above a whisper, "I didn't say I'd leave you here alone. Bull can stay back, too." As he moved to set his tea aside, she hurriedly finished before he could object further. "You should spend more time together to get to know each other, to - "

"Oh,  _pish!_ Inquisitor -"

"Don't call me that."

He sat back, nonplussed. "And why not?"

She frowned deeply at him. "Because you only ever call me 'Inquisitor' when you're trying to distance yourself from me. I don't call you 'Altus,' do I?"

As he leaned forward with narrowed eyes and raised a finger, his throat closed around the sharp rebuke. She had a point. "Inquisitor" was a word reserved for either polite conversation in the presence of anxious, anti-Tevinter types, or for flagrant disagreements such as these. "All right," he accepted this, raising his chin and steepling stiff fingers over his lap. "I'll make a mental note not to use your title in vain, in the future."

Lavellan looked like she was about to criticise his tone, but let a breath out in a deep sigh instead. "This war will end soon," she explained.  _Tell me something I don't know,_ he thought in an instant, biting his tongue before the phrase could escape the confines of his mind. "I don't want Bull going back to mercenary work and you to the Imperium before you know whether there could have been more than what you have now. A little trip away together might… I don't know… help flesh that out a bit more."

Dorian bit down on his tongue even harder, surprised only that he didn't then draw blood. He'd almost stepped into it with her, but luckily the mage silenced himself before pointing out that "a little trip away together" hadn't done her relationship with  _Solas_ any favours. All he would have done was shut down the conversation in the coldest manner possible, risking all their morning teas going forward.

But his silence - nay, the look on his face alone - was more than enough to convey that exact sentiment. Realisation dawned in her eyes as they flitted to the railing, where the resident elven apostate could be seen below. Dorian could hear him even now, shaking off dreams and beginning his day in total - or feigned - ignorance of their close proximity. Or had their voices stirred him from sleep? He hardly cared for the elf's sake, but only for Lavellan's, who stared in that direction like a rabbit caught in a trap, hoping the hunter who had ensnared her had the heart to free her… or at least put her out of her misery.

"...No more talk of this ridiculous romantic getaway nonsense," he whispered, glad to have recaptured her attention. "I'm coming with you, Lavvy. Whatever it is that Bull and I have, we can make clear on the road."

The elf's eyes met his, her scepticism making itself frustratingly known.  _"Can_  you?"

Rolling his own, he retrieved his teacup, muttering, "Believe it or not, I'm a grown man. I'm more than capable of talking frankly about love."

The four-letter word wrapped itself around his heart, forcing it to beat faster while trying to free itself of that smothering grasp, and Dorian was suddenly filled with a swift jolt of terror.  _Love?_ Oh, Maker, that couldn't be what he felt for that one-eyed, gigantic bastard, could it? Yes, he'd desperately prayed in the past for that sort of connection with another man, but he didn't think that he'd ever  _experience_ it. That he might actually harbour such feelings for someone, that that someone might even share in them with him, was… Well, it was downright frightening was what it was. And what if Bull didn't feel likewise? Could qunari even comprehend what love was, considering how little a role it played in their barbaric societies?

That struck him as an excuse, and a cruel one at that. They'd exchanged words resembling love before, surely.  _Kadan._   _Amatus._ At times, their actions spoke louder than words ever could.  _Much_ louder, if he wanted to get crass about it. Did it  _really_ need to be spelled out between them? Couldn't he just… continue to ignore the pesky issue and hold out hope that it would simply buzz away without needing to so openly take a swat at it?

"What's wrong, Dor?" Lavellan broke past his own nervousness.

"Hmm? ...Oh," he breathed, casting his glance downward, "nothing, Lavvy… The tea's gone cold, that's all…"

The tea was indeed cold. A bloody travesty.

Worse still, in his chest lay an obtrusive ache. One so uninvited, yet inextricably part of the fabric of his soul, that he couldn't be altogether certain it hadn't been there all along.

And he couldn't begin to tell her why. No matter how he wanted to.

**~oOo~**

Not for the first time that morning, Varric had wedged himself like a stowaway locked in with the ship's cargo into the cramped legroom that existed beneath the Inquisitor's desk. If the keep hadn't been as silent as it was at this hour, and if he hadn't been awake for most of the night, he probably wouldn't have heard the approaching steps to the downstairs entrance. It had been a close call as he'd scrambled for a place to hide the first time, figuring there would be enough room for him under here. As luck would have it, though, it was a tight enough squeeze to trigger his claustrophobia, which was just… you know,  _perfect_. He'd considered the water closet this time around, but didn't want to risk the door creaking and giving his position away.

So, there he was, squatting like a tool while trying his damnedest to hunch in his shoulders and quiet his heavy breathing,  _again_. Still, it was better than risking a run-in with Nightingale.

Whoever it was this time was quieter than the first guy. He could just make out the scratch of a quill and the familiar scrape of a turning page. Were they going over notes and making a few more? Varric clenched his fist, resisting the urge to reveal himself and ask how Cassandra was faring. Honestly, he couldn't think of anything wrong with her. No more rage-induced freakouts or paralysing surges in her sleep had to be a major positive, all things considered. He'd even gotten up to close the balcony doors and light the fire earlier on because she was cold to the touch for the first time since -

The visitor let out a sigh and a slight hum to himself as he rolled the notes up, but Varric's heart lightened at the sound. Confident, he breathed a relieved sigh and squeezed out from under the desk, a large, callused hand resting on the seat of the chair for leverage as he pushed himself up.

"Sparkler," he turned toward the mage with a smile.

" _Vishante - "_ Dorian jerked back in surprise, fire reflexively blooming in his hand. Unfortunately, that spelled the end of the quill he'd been holding, the sturdy feather crumbling to ash on the expensive imported rug at his feet.

"... _Kaffas_ ," he grumbled, staring at the soot on his shoe.

Varric winced and made his way around the furniture, awkwardly crossing his arms over his tunic. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I've got a spare if you're out."

Dorian blinked several times and eventually sighed as if his spirit was escaping his body. "No, nevermind. It's not as though I don't have a hundred more lying around the place," he muttered ruefully, tucking the rolled notes away. "I see you're back from wherever the blazes you were, yesterday. At least nothing  _important_ happened while you were gone."

He watched as Dorian lit a pair of pillar candles standing on the bedside table, regret stinging him. "Sorry," he said again, "I had no idea… I was catching up on sleep."

"You  _were_ out of sorts, last I saw you," the man admitted with reluctance. "And I did cut off your access. But when your little dwarven friends showed up, you weren't in your quarters."

Varric glanced down at Cassandra's sleeping form, his brows lowering in dismay. "Yeah, I know. I was... sleeping it off somewhere else."

He felt Sparkler's "ah" more than he heard it, his eyes trained on the Seeker as he watched the candlelight cast its romantic spell over the sharp lines of her face. She looked so peaceful… Even after all the hours he'd spent trying to get used to this new reality, it still felt so unreal…

"You can go back to bed, Varric," Dorian uttered, careful not to wake her. "Alexius will be up in around four hours to do another check, though, so don't get too carried away while you're up here."

Ignoring the implications of his last statement altogether, Varric looked up, a wrinkle forming between his ginger brows. "But he was just here."

Dorian stared back in confusion, tilting his ear toward a shoulder. "No, that's not right. Alexius didn't have the night shift," he said, scratching at his jaw in pensive thought. "Are you sure you're not mistaken?"

He shook his head. "Yeah, positive, Sparkler. I stole a peek from over there and saw him myself," he explained, thumbing toward the hiding place over his shoulder. "He checked Cassandra over like you just did, and then…" His frown deepened at the memory, whiskeyed eyes going dark.

Concerned, Sparkler frowned. "Go on."

Varric's neck disappeared as he hunched his shoulders up in a long, awkward shrug. "Well, he kind of… sat down over there and started… sniffling to himself. I think he might've been weeping."

Sadness crept up on the mage, his body slumping at the news. "Oh, Gereon," he lamented to himself, shaking his head sombrely, "you poor old bastard…" When he glanced over to find Varric waiting for an explanation, the Tevinter pressed his lips to a fine line and glided a finger over his mustache, smoothing it down to busy a nervous hand. "The healing  _was_  rather dramatic, but I doubt that's what got to him. I'm sure it played a role, but… no, he's usually so  _very_ reliable under pressure… You must understand," he clarified after checking the Seeker's temperature with the back of his hand, bringing the comforter up to her chin and preparing to make his exit, "it's quite possible Cassandra's near-miraculous healing struck a personal chord with the old man, and… well, it wouldn't have exactly been the most pleasant one to grapple with, yes?"

Varric's eyes drifted back down to Cassandra, tucked in warmly beneath the patterned satin comforter, still stuck firmly in her dress from the night before. "...Oh," was all he could muster in reply.  _That's probably it,_  he thought. Alexius  _did_ look like a guy plagued with regrets and hypotheticals, and Varric was sure he wouldn't feel any different in the magister's shoes. With everything he'd put himself through after losing Hawke, he understood all too well that awful pang of jealous grief that crept up behind him whenever someone else survived something arguably worse in comparison, constantly asking himself if he could have changed things if he'd just done something right, for once.

It was a shame the Grey Wardens had all disappeared… They could have saved that Felix kid the same way they'd saved Sunshine all those years ago…

And it struck Varric then that Alexius' Elder One had known exactly where the Wardens were all along. He'd kept back the one thing that could have saved Felix, all so the desperate magister would dance to every tune that asshole set, just for a fleeting hope that his only son might live.

Once more, the dwarf kicked himself for not checking for damn sure that Corypheus had died the first time.

Sure as shit, he promised himself that he wouldn't make that same mistake again.

**~oOo~**

The wind howled its way down the long chimney, the dance of the flames morphing into something of a frantic scramble, as if the fire itself flinched at the bitter cold blowing down upon it. Swallowing against a dull ache, her brow furrowed and she closed her eyes for just a moment longer, willing herself to push past the irritation engulfing her throat. She did her best to focus on what was good: the warmth of the fireplace, the relief of finally stripping off that cursed gown from last night's festivities, the ease of the breath moving through her chest, the feeling of being well-rested for the first time in months…

There was so much to be thankful for. A sore throat, for the meantime, wasn't worth complaining about.

Varric was quiet as he snaked around behind Cassandra in her borrowed quarters. There was a silence to his every step that took her by surprise whenever he appeared out of the corner of her eye, but it wasn't an unpleasant realisation. Rather, to find him nearby, roaming about the place as he brought her this or made her that, was a comfort, even bordering on humorous at times. He seemed to be everywhere, doting on her to the point of absurdity. It was done out of kindness, but it wasn't necessary. Nevertheless, despite her itching limbs wanting to do things for herself, she let him have this. If it made him feel better to help in some small way, she wouldn't force him to stop.

Within moments, she was presented with a cup of tea, saucer and all. Lowering the drink to her lap, she couldn't help but smile at the flecks of leaves he'd failed to sieve properly, at the intimidatingly dark quality of the liquid that had brewed minutes too long, and at his sudden reappearance with a tray of cream and sugar for her to add at her leisure. It was endearing, all his fumbling attempts to serve her in this way. Hopefully it didn't taste as unappetising as it looked.

A throw blanket was draped over her back, resting on her shoulders. She pulled it around her just as he sat down beside her with a heavy sigh. Things were silent for all of a handful of heartbeats before Cassandra huffed out the ghost of a laugh. Snark was on the tip of her tongue, but it was as though the mere thought of speaking brought a burning to her throat that she could hardly stand. Letting it go, she shrugged and braved the first sip of the tea he'd prepared. Maker, it was strong stuff, bitter and pungent. Grimacing, she shuddered and set the cup down for the time being.

"No good?" he asked, fingers laced over his abdomen as he grinned wildly her way. "Eh, never really got the hang of tea. Ask me for a pint and I'm your man, but anything that requires actual prep… Useless."

Yet another smile overtook her, eyes shimmering with delight as she exaggerated another sip of the tea. Heat burned its way down her neck and blossomed in her chest, and the effects were soothing on the seemingly perpetual soreness. Placing it back down again, she ran her tongue over her teeth, conscious of a leaf particle that had embedded itself near her gums.

Varric caught her frown and laughed softly, watching her struggle oddly before leaning close. "Smile," he bade her.

As she slowly relented and showed him her teeth, Varric scrutinised her mouth and brought a fingernail up to scrape away the offending tea leaf for her. He showed off the tiny black particle before flicking it carelessly at the fire, slouching again as though it were nothing of consequence.

It was a bizarre moment, one so mundane and domestic that she could hardly process it for a second or two. He'd really just...  _done that_  for her. No scrambling for a mirror to let her do it herself, no commentary on how repulsive it was, no flippant jokes at her expense. She had needed something, and he was there to lend a hand without hesitation.

"Too weird?"

Snapping out of her daze, Cassandra threw him a puzzled glance.

He swirled a finger in the air around his face, searching for the proper descriptor buried in his mind. "You're doing a… a thing." At that, he snorted derisively and leaned his head back, looking away with a chuckle. "Said the bestselling author. I'll blame this one on fatigue." Waving it off, Varric gave her the glimmer of a cocky smile. "Anyway, Sparkler was up here, a while ago. He mentioned that you'd lost your voice during the whole dramatic climax I wasn't here to witness. And there I was, trying to get you to talk. Now I feel like an ass, Seeker. You should've told me," he winked.

A gurgled laugh escaped her, appreciating the jest. Coughing away the irritation it gave her, Cassandra scratched the base of her neck and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

The Keep was still asleep around them. With sunlight lost behind gloomy clouds and lulling mountains, Cassandra could hardly hold that against anyone. Although they may still be huddling indoors, she was sure many were hard at work at the crack of dawn, just as she usually was, but being caught out in this weather was another story.

From the corner of her eye, Varric sat up and rested his elbows on his knees, looking over at her before returning his gaze to his boots. "He also wanted to give us a heads-up: The Inquisitor was talking about heading out and making for southwestern Orlais. I guess she's got more of those shards she's looking to cash in."

Cassandra took the news like a heavy rucksack was just slung over her shoulder after being told to scale a mountain. The thought of that searing heat now, after just having rid herself of the feverish experience of the red lyrium, was daunting. She was lucky that she remembered to set her tea down before she slunked back in defeat.  _Out of one fire, straight into the next,_ she thought, dreading the coming weeks.

"Oh, I'm with you on that, Seeker," Varric agreed with her overt mannerisms, his eyes still lowered to the ground. "I know I'm not the most enthusiastic sightseer ever, but if I never saw those ugly deserts again, it'd be too soon."

Cassandra grimaced at that. It wouldn't be a carefree romp through the sweltering sands for Varric, either, and she knew that it didn't just boil down to him not wanting a paid vacation to the ass-end of Orlais. That place was full of memories the dwarf would rather stay buried, not recalled in vivid detail as they passed familiar landmarks that brought thoughts friends long past hope to mind. If that's where they were headed, then she made a note to pack a few extra canteens to distract him.

"Well, if I'm going, I might as well bring along some reading material," he sighed, shifting to face her. "Speaking of which, Seeker, you wouldn't happen to remember what you did with my, uh… 'correspondence,' now would you?" The word had been spoken with a smirk in his gruff voice, and she could picture the turn of his lip even as she looked away with a thoughtful frown. "You did such a great job cleaning my quarters from floor to ceiling that now I can't find jack shit in there."

The remark about his missing papers was meant to be taken lightly, but she couldn't dismiss the idea that perhaps he was urgently in need of addressing something of great importance to either his investments or his network of spies, or some other business obligation. Perhaps her hiding place was  _too_ good. And since she couldn't simply tell him their location, Cassandra let out a resigned sigh and stood up, laying the blanket down and rounding the sofa before heading straight for her boots.

Varric watched her set about the palatial quarters, standing as soon as she grabbed the pair and sat down to strap them on. "Oh, what, right  _now?_ We don't have to rush out - you could finish your…" As he picked up her teacup, he made a dour face and brought it up to his nose, taking a whiff. The next face he made was more agreeable. "Ah, gotcha. I'd run off if you were making me drink this shit, too," he grumbled, casting it into the fire. The wood smoked and hissed, but luckily the liquid wasn't as flammable as it tasted. Then he sat down in the chair by the desk and slid on his own boots, readying himself to join her in search of his mail.

When she made for the stairs, he raced to her side and grabbed her arm, preventing her near descent. "Uhm… that's… not really a good idea. Hang on, let me think for a second."

Confused but intrigued, she indulged him, curious to see where this would lead. Instead of taking the path of least resistance through the keep, as she had fully expected, the dwarf surprised her by throwing open the west balcony doors and leaning out over the railing. Varric looked up to gauge the weather, then down, all the while tapping his chin and clicking his tongue. He calculated in silence as Cassandra stared wordlessly at him, his crinkled brow the only outward indication of an intense decision-making process taking place.

Then, quite unexpectedly, he rubbed gloved hands together and turned back to grab Bianca before taking Cassandra by the hand.

What in the name of Andraste made him think this was at all necessary? Who was he even avoiding by taking to the roofs instead of the walkways?

It wasn't precisely a long way down, but the ice on the shingles of the roof below them had given her pause. As did the precarious state of Varric's ankle. More than once after braving the jump, she had lurched back only to find him steadying her, his face twisting as pain shot up his leg. But they made it, step by slippery step, to the adjacent roof over the chapel.

The task became easier with every tile, just as the wind grew colder at their backs by the second. This sneaking-around business was patently ridiculous, yet with the same breath, she had to admit to a small thrill inching up her spine. Was this the reason behind his decades of moving in the shadows, behind every shot from a distance to an enemy unaware of danger until a poisoned bolt threw him to the ground? She may have preferred looking into the eyes of her adversary on an open field in a fair fight, but Varric clearly adopted other methods and preferred his own way of doing things.

When they reached the steep side of the Mage Tower, Cassandra came to a dead halt in both thought and movement. Her chin rose, tracing the eye-watering height to the tower's rooftop ramparts. Then her sight moved downward, critically measuring the distance from the storm drains to the ground. With a sigh, she tossed a glare Varric's way and shrugged, pointing toward the gardens in frank indication.

He grinned, catching her once again off guard. What did he have to be so cocky about? Careful not to lose balance, he pulled his crossbow over his shoulder and aimed up, checking his trajectory with the scope. At last satisfied, he pulled a trigger off to the side and launched a spiny, anchor-like mechanism high in the air, secured to the crossbow by a thick chain. The bang should have been loud enough to inform the whole keep, but instead was merely a heavy  _pop!_  that would go unnoticed even by the most paranoid of guards. Cassandra heard it make contact with the stone above, craning her neck to watch him yank the chain until it was lodged securely between two ramparts.

"Grappling hook," he explained with a wave, still grinning as he tapped Bianca's stock. In one smooth motion, he wrapped an arm tightly about Cassandra and pulled her close. "See that iron lever near the bolt feed?" When she nodded tentatively, he instructed, "Give that a switch when you're ready. And hold on, Seeker. It's a long way down."

With their combined weight, she wasn't expecting much to happen if anything, but when she switched the lever he'd indicated from left to right, she nearly tumbled clear over his shoulder from the speed of their ascent. Luckily, it was as if Varric had entirely expected her to doubt his seriousness and gripped her all the harder to prevent her fall. While she positioned herself more effectively, he let Bianca do the work as he set boots against the wall near the top floor, protecting them both from the scrape of cold, unforgiving stone against their skin.

Within moments, they were at the top. Grasping the tip of the ramparts, Cassandra scaled over his shoulders and reached the solid floor of the open air section of the tower. He may not have required help, but she leaned over and offered him a hand up anyway, careful not to nudge loose the grappling hook next to her hip. "Thanks," he wheezed, leveraging himself against her diminished strength. Stumbling over the side, he wiped at his brow and paused to catch his breath, the Seeker doing the same. Despite nearly dropping him, the adrenaline rush had sent thrills through her, and she fought for calm as she looked out over the ramparts to the roof from whence they had come.

"I think I'm getting a little too old for that move." Varric took a knee and tugged loose his hook, flicking the lever a few times and reapplying the stays. As an aside, he added, "Oh, hey, uh… don't tell Her Inquisitorialness about this. Lavellan would strangle me if she knew I could've scaled cliffs with Bianca this whole time."

Cassandra huffed out a laugh and shrugged emphatically at him.

He shrugged back.  _"Yeah, well_  - I don't like to just  _whip_  her out and abuse her at every opportunity, especially in her old age. The hook's for emergencies only, nowadays."

At that, the Seeker squinted dubiously and looked away.  _How does he consider this even_  remotely _an emergency?_  But she couldn't argue the point even had she desired to, and so left her questions on the rooftop.

"Alright, let's move," Varric rose and opened the hatch leading indoors. She lowered herself to the first rung and gripped the railing as she slid down to the workfloor of the Mage Tower. "Once we get to the bottom floor, edge your way out the door. Keep quiet, stay low, and make for my -"

She hesitated. Clumsily, Varric slammed into her back, stopping him dead in his tracks. Ignoring her, he glided around to lead from the front again. "Seeker, what's the holdup -?"

He must have expected the mages to be asleep in their cots, but they'd come face to face with quite the opposite. Half a dozen master arcanists, enchanters, and tranquil were huddled around a table lit with candles and the soft lights of healing spells, pouring over tomes, grimoires, spell books, and everything else stocked on the bookshelves of any respectable Circle worth its title. With them stood a hooded figure, who turned at the sound of their arrival.

Leliana's steely eyes had frozen the dwarf solid.

"...Well... shit," he muttered under his breath.

The Inquisition's Spymaster left the group with a word, arms crossed over the sigil on her chest as she made her way to them. Varric stiffened on her approach, taking one sorely-needed step backward in soft retreat. Confusion melted into understanding as Cassandra at last realised who the dwarf had been avoiding with his crazy antics.

"Varric," Leliana seethed quietly, blue eyes narrowed to the cutting edges of twin blades. "You will not run from me, this time."

Varric's very soul escaped the confines of his stout body with the heaviness of his sigh. With great reluctance, he threw Bianca into her sling and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, Nightingale. You caught me red-handed... Looks like the early bird finally caught the worm."

Cassandra shot looks between the two, watching as Leliana stiffened noticeably at his use of the common phrase. A long silence drew out among the three while the mages continued to concentrate at their backs, her confusion mounting once again.

"Cat got your tongue?" he prompted her, shifting shaky thumbs to his belt loops. He was nervous, that much was obvious. What had he done to earn the Spymaster's wrath? Knowing him, he likely deserved it...

But Leliana was battling a quiet rage, glowing with hostility. "How  _dare_ you, Tethras?"

Their eyes widened in unison, Cassandra throwing him an accusatory glance. On the receiving end of both looks, Varric bristled. "Whatever I did, it wasn't my -!" He stopped himself short and growled under his breath, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Alright, fine. It's  _probably_ my fault. What, you want me to plead guilty before I even know the charges?"

"You  _know_ what she did!"

Now the merchant prince was more perplexed than ever. He arched a brow, pointing directly at Cassandra. Aghast, the Seeker backhanded his shoulder in a tidy  _thwack!_ , causing him to step back and tuck the accusing finger away.

Leliana turned her back on them and reclaimed her place within the circle of mages, bent over the small table. "I'm here," they heard her whisper. "What's your assessment?"

"He has survived the night," a tranquil offered the information blandly. "It remains to be seen whether he will take food and water."

Alarmed, Cassandra walked forward and stepped around the table to catch a glimpse of what was obviously their patient. On the table, lightly restrained, was a large black raven, beak open and slack while a mage treated half-healed lacerations along its back and beneath its expansive wings, both of which were missing several feathers necessary for flight. Half of its neck was raw and bare, red from irritation. It was as though the poor bird had been plucked and beaten in intense battle for its very life.

"...Oh no. What happened, here?" Varric's voice sounded beside her.

Leliana gathered a mess of bloody cloths and tossed them into a bin placed beneath the table's surface. She refused to make eye contact with him as she shook her head and flipped the pages of a medical tome that one of the mages had opened in front of her, pointing to a diagram and the relevant paragraph.

"I'd wondered why my ravens were late returning from Halamshiral," the Orlesian said just above a whisper. Tutting to soothe her charge as he squalked in protest to his wing being outstretched, she pursed her lips. "Harding's scouts and my own men could account for all but one making their way back to us. It seems Ser Archibald Crowley was delayed at base camp."

At that, she raised glaring eyes to the dwarf. "Minutes from delivering Empress Celine's message regarding Sandal's summoning, his message was intercepted. He lay injured in the snow for Maker knows how long before the Commander's recruits discovered him. By the date on the message, it could very well have been days... But Ser Crowley is a good soldier," she said, stroking what was left of the soft black feathers on the raven's head and neck. "He fought, and because of that, he survives... For the moment."

Cassandra wanted to ask what this unfortunate turn of events had to do with Varric, but the man at her side lowered his head and swore softly. "Damn it...  _Shhhit_. I'm sorry, Nightingale... I'll pay for the damages."

"The damage is done." Leliana left the circle of experts and waved the pair off to the side to join her. "He was one of my best fliers, and now they say he may never take to the skies again. I will have to take special care of him for the remainder of his life,  _if_ he lives at all… but I won't begrudge him that. As for Mouse, that is another matter."

It dawned on the Seeker, then. Shocked, she turned and glanced back at the feathered patient before looking back to Leliana.  _Mouse had done that?_  How could she have targeted one of the Spymaster's best ravens? Cassandra wasn't even aware that the cat traveled as far as the camp at the foot of the mountain on her explorations of the keep. For Leliana to suspect Varric's pet, this must have been a pattern of behaviour for her.

"Leave it to Blondie's kitten to try maiming something too big to die," he mumbled, fidgeting to stave off the tenseness in the air. He rubbed the back of his reddening neck, wracking his mind for a compromise that would suit the crime. "Look, I can't make a cat go against her nature, but I can keep a closer eye on her."

Shaking her head, Leliana hardened. "I'd be insane to blame an animal for its instincts, but she has gone too far this time. That message was too important to leave lying in the snow. Crowley was too important - and  _innocent_. And you are ultimately responsible for what happened." Pursing her lips, she crossed her arms and shifted her weight. "The cat has to go."

Now it was Varric's turn to shake his head. "I'm  _not_ getting rid of Mouse. She's mine and I  _owe_ it to her to do right by her." Waving the proposition aside angrily, he offered a truce, instead. "You want the threat removed,  _fine_. I'll take her with me from here on out and make sure she stays out of trouble. Wherever I go, she goes, but I'm not giving her up." Tired, he slumped back and threw his hands wide. "Not saying I'm not sorry for your raven - and I hope he makes a full recovery - but you take care of yours and I'll take care of mine. Take it or leave it, because I'm not changing my mind... Not this time."

From the sidelines, Cassandra studied Leliana for clues. She appeared to take the suggestion in stride, and although the Seeker could tell her friend wasn't convinced of his ability to do as he promised, she still gave it plenty of thought before she spoke again.

"Something tells me that she'll get into more trouble at your side than on her own," she said, her thumb stroking the corner of her lip, "but if you promise to look after her... I suppose I cannot argue with you. On the condition that this never happens again - and if it does, Tethras, I swear by the Maker, I'll add you to my list of marks."

Cassandra half expected him to heave a sigh of relief, but he bucked his usual trend by continuing to hold his breath, eyeing the Inquisition's Spymaster closely. There was more going on here than met the eye. Yes, the matter of the raven and his hunter was the chief concern here, but something told the Seeker that this was less about predators and prey and more about something to which she was not privy.

"So..." he stared the woman down, his voice worn thin and lower than usual. "...Are we done here, or did you have anything else you wanted to get off your chest?"

She was right, and they all but confirmed it in the way their eyes shifted to rest on her, albeit briefly. Varric and Leliana held a private exchange directly in Cassandra's company, and she wasn't so dense as to not realise that the daggers they exchanged with one another were in her defense. There may yet be bad blood lingering between the two spymasters over what Leliana had said to him in the War Room. After all, it was Leliana who had watered and toiled the seeds of doubt in Varric's mind over his perceived dangerous association with Cassandra. But that felt like an Age ago; surely they couldn't hold bitterness for so long.

It was a strange moment for her, to know that the people closest to her had differing ideas on how best to protect her, as though she even  _needed_  protecting. It riled something within her, picking vicious scabs off her wounded pride. Undoubtedly, recent events had damaged their perceptions of her to the point where they no longer believed her invincible… And that was not something she could fault them for, for that was precisely how she felt, too. She had survived the worst thing that had ever happened to her, and still that wasn't enough to convince anyone, even herself, that she was strong enough.

As Leliana took a deep, measured breath, she lowered her arms to her sides and softened her stance a touch. Her lips parted as she stared at the dwarf, blue eyes calculating, yet sombre. A quick glance to the Right Hand, and then...

"Yes, Varric... I... I owe you an apology."

There was something noble about remaining quiet, whether by foil or folly. It gave Cassandra the opportunity to look, to listen, to absorb, rather than demand, declare, even denounce all that took place around her. Had she the ability, she would have interfered with this exchange long before, peppering them with questions, pointed remarks, and she never would have taken the time to witness two professional liars square off with the truth. Had she mislabeled them, though? To paint them as liars first and foremost felt like the most surface-level judgement, now that she was confronted with... whatever it was they were doing now.

As for Varric, his openness to such apologies was caked with as much suspicion as he'd had for Cassandra during her numerous attempts to humble herself in a similar manner. And although she expected no less, she hoped that he would someday find it in his heart to forgive, if not for Leliana's sake, then his own.

"...You probably owe me that much, Nightingale, I'll give you that," Varric stated blandly, no hint of emotion behind his words. "Maybe we can call it even, then. Throw out the rough draft and start fresh, or something."

Leliana nodded slowly to that. "Perhaps, though we shouldn't disregard it entirely. Every draft, rough or not, reveals ways in which to improve. I shall do that, and take forward what I have learned. I can only pray you will do the same."

She was speaking on his level, it seemed. After a long moment of consideration, Varric held out his hand. Satisfied, Leliana offered her own in kind.

And so, they shook on it.

"Deal," Varric promised, glancing up to Cassandra as he let go his grip and headed for the stairs. With no small amount of hesitance, she followed suit, bottling up the words she could not add.

"Tethras," Leliana called out before they could go, "do you know much about ravens?"

He paused and looked back over his shoulder, waiting. He was letting her have the final word.

"They are fiercely intelligent creatures, you know. They chart their path and stick to it, no matter the cost to themselves. It's considered a gift to befriend them, let alone share a home with them... Still, they are wild at heart with a mind all their own, and you cannot cage them for long."

She stroked fingers down the injured bird's back, though her messenger was seemingly catatonic. "Oh yes, their wings may break, but never their spirit… Respect them always, or don't hold it against them when they take to the skies and never return to roost."

Sobered by her words, Varric was silent as he took a breath and descended the stairs, Cassandra following in his wake. They took each flight in quiet introspection, making eye contact with one another only when he opened the door to the battlements outside, struck once again by morning's bracing chill.

"She really loves that bird, huh?" he muttered around an empty smirk.

But they didn't breathe another word on the subject.

**~oOo~**

The walk to his room was punctuated only by the pelting sleet and the sudden gusts of wind, Cassandra keeping a steady pace at his side. His mind was racing over that last confrontation, one that he'd expected to go down a lot differently than it had. Still, Mouse pouncing on everything with wings or a pink tail hadn't helped whatsoever, and he wondered if it might've gone better if there wasn't the matter of the half-dead raven to contend with.

The door to his quarters was still unlocked, and after shaking off the water from his hair, Varric stepped inside and out of the cold, ignoring the chattering of his teeth. He turned suddenly as a gurgled note of surprise leapt from the Seeker's throat.

"What? Oh. Yeah, forgot about the mess," he apologised, dragging himself over to a pile of half-folded clean clothes scattered on the floor.

Her eyes wide, the Seeker waved her arms emphatically at the state of his room, obviously upset that it looked worse than when she'd started, weeks ago. It was tough just to stop himself from laughing, and in the end, he lost that battle. She croaked something resembling her typical  _ugh!_ and shook her head in frustration, beginning the task all over again.

Varric halted what little progress she was making, holding up his hands to coax her down. "You know what? Don't waste your energy, Seeker. It's just going to look like this no matter what you do," he tried to smile. "I'm a sloppy old perpetual bachelor; you're not responsible for cleaning up my messes." He had expected that to ease her, but something in the way she looked away… Varric couldn't place it, exactly. She didn't really want to waste her energy on his quarters, did she?

 _Maybe she doesn't exactly appreciate you calling yourself a bachelor,_ his mind suggested. That could be it, but he hadn't used the word in the literal sense. It was just a state of mind, not a marital status… He shook the thought away, grateful that her back was turned so she didn't witness it.  _As if the Seeker still wants anything after what happened…_

Like clockwork, his brain jumped on that stray thought, too. What was he thinking? After last night? Didn't the whole sex part of the evening sort of go to prove that a relationship was  _exactly_  what she wanted from him? Unless she was just scratching an itch; he could certainly understand that. Who  _wouldn't_ want to have a casual fling with a handsome dwarf like him? Anyway - the  _point_ was: Cassandra wasn't the type of woman to just use him for her own base desires. Unless he counted that one time, which he didn't because she was pretty sick and, as she'd said, not in her right mind. No, whatever she wanted out of this, it decidedly  _wasn't_  a one-night-stand.

The question he  _should_ be grappling with was: What did he want from  _her?_

And Andraste's ass, Varric knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted it a little too much. That was why he was grappling with it to begin with, since it wasn't the sort of question he should be asking her, now…

The squeak of a hinge sounded from the other end of the room, pulling Varric from his fretful musings. The Seeker was bent low over the empty chest, the items that had previously been stored within scattered all around her.

"Hey," he raised a hand, coming toward her, "like I said, you don't have to…"

Twin ginger brows raised as she reached in and yanked free a plank of wood, tossing it aside. She looked in and smirked to herself, shooting a glance at him as she gestured at the contents. Leaning over her shoulder, the dwarf chuckled.

"Oh, you're good," he complimented her, staring down at his documents in stark approval. "You sure you're in the right line of work, Seeker? You should hide all my secrets from now on."

Cassandra's breath escaped in a voiceless laugh, and she stood to make room for him as he plucked some of the items from the chest. A letter here, a missive there, and he lazily bent over backwards to latch his outstretched fingers around the strap of his rucksack, tugging it toward him to stuff as much as he could inside. He could read over them and reply on the journey -

An idea struck him on the jaw, his mouth falling slack. "...I can't believe I didn't think of this sooner," he chastised himself, slamming the lid down and rushing across the room to his nightstand. He spied from the corner of his eye as she shivered and sat down on his bed, pulling the blanket over her shoulders for a modicum of warmth in the chilly room. Cassandra watched him in turn, angular brows furrowing in curiosity as he fumbled through the drawer for all the items he needed.

"Got 'em," he breathed, setting the items down so he could take up the flint stone and light the bedside candles. "I'm an idiot. Of all people,  _I_ should have tried this hours ago." Once the wicks flickered to life and the flames steadied, pushing back the darkness from the bed, Varric sat down to her left on the lumpy mattress and set a random book on her lap. Then, he turned back to the nightstand and grabbed the small stack of clean parchment, setting it on top before picking up the quill and placing it in her hand.

"So, Seeker," he opened the conversation, uncorking his inkwell with a well-placed thumb and a wry smile, "what's on your mind?"

He forced himself to resist the laughter, this time. Her jaw had gone just as slack as his own had when the idea came to him. Cassandra was dumbstruck, and he'd known then that the prospect of actually writing down her thoughts had never occurred to her until now, either. It was such a simple solution to the problem that she reacted to it in the only way she could express: by falling back and taking a moment to lie down. It was probably a better angle for her to stare up at the heavens and ask Andraste why she'd not thought of it herself.

"Up, up, up!" he bade her, shoving a hand under her back and pulling her upright again. "I know, I know: I'm a genius. Write it down so I have evidence of you admitting it."

Cassandra scoffed and rolled her eyes, nodding toward the inkwell. He brought it toward her and held it as she dipped the quill, watching as she made sure to wipe the extra ink along the rim. She dabbed the paper once, twice, and then began in a shaky script. Well aware that she was left-handed, instead of reading over her shoulder, he took a back seat and simply watched her lips as they moved ever so slightly with her thoughts. Her brows drew together, her frown deepened, her cheek twitched, and he studied the dance of her features, wondering if she was always so expressive or if he had just missed it all before.

At last, the Seeker lowered her hand, and Varric glanced down at what she had written for him there:

_Hello._

The next smile was painful, but it turned his lips regardless. Were those tears of joy stinging his eyes? Fighting them, the dwarf simply gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Alright, we'll start there," he managed past the lump taking form in his throat. "Hi there, Seeker. It's good to hear from you."

That couldn't be all she wanted to say, he thought silently, and sure enough, her hand hovered over the page. There was a hesitation present, a start-and-stop to what she transcribed now. She must have struggled to find the right words, but he sat patiently until she finished, at last turning her thigh toward him so he could read. The writing was a little smudged, but after he snatched up his reading glasses from the nightstand, the words were clearer:

_I do not know what to believe._

It was his turn to frown, apparently. "What's not to believe?" he asked, his voice gruff in all its sincerity.

Cassandra let her eyes dart about the room as she took a steady breath and held it momentarily. After a moment, she waved her free hand about the room, the journey ending as she planted a finger in the centre of his chest.

He bit his lower lip, trying to crack the coded message. "Uh, me? Or is this about the sorry state of my quarters, again?"

She could have gritted her teeth and sighed with exasperation, but she didn't waste time with that, instead returning to the parchment on her lap, where she scribbled another quick note:

_Is this all a dream?_

_Oh,_  Varric realised, finally understanding. She needed a dwarf's perspective to clear the matter up for her doubting mind. Clearing his throat, he took a breath and said, "I've asked myself if this is all real a hundred times, Seeker. Hard to believe it's really happening, but… yeah. I think so. I'd know for sure, right?"

She looked off to the side for a heartbeat, meeting his eyes again for a brief moment. In another second, Cassandra was looking back down at the parchment, but Varric continued to stare at only her. The look on her face had said it all: She hadn't been reassured of anything. Dreams must have been incredibly vivid things for her to still be left so unsure of her surroundings. He could only imagine what she had dreamt while lying unconscious… The thought alone made him shiver.

Varric splayed his palm over her back, running the hand up and down over the blanket around her. "Hey," he whispered, leaning his temple against her own as he inched closer, "you're gonna be alright… Maybe not right now. But eventually, you'll bounce back. You'll see."

He felt the twinge on her temple as her jaw clenched, biting back the words that wouldn't come, either way. Cassandra closed her eyes for a time and allowed herself an ounce of vulnerability, leaning into his sideways embrace. The world was quiet and still, motionless save for the hand petting her softly, intimately, solidly. He'd never known her to such a degree, this woman of such convincing certainty and inspiring bravery, to feel lost in a world she'd once had so much control over. But it was a brave thing for her to confess… If this helped in some way, if sitting on an old bed and working through the worst of it with (at the very least) a friend who could spare the time and a shoulder to share her burdens would at least offer some level of comfort…

The question he'd abandoned at the war chest some time ago crawled up from the back of his mind, echoing off the thick contours of his skull. It boomed and shook the ground, the colour draining from his face until he was left breathless with a ghostly pallor. Sweat threatened to dot his brow as he held it at bay, his heart on the verge of collapse. Varric swallowed hard to force it back down.

It was a question for another day. Not now. Maybe… maybe later.

Maybe not ever.

Instead, he took from his pocket the small token of his affection that he had found on the nightstand beside her sleeping form, earlier that morning. He slipped it around her neck, taking care to fasten the clasp high and away from the tenderness of her wounds. Varric ran his fingers down the hollow of her neck, thumbing the dead amulet as he spoke the only words that could offer real comfort, now.

"Though all before me is shadow, Yet shall the Maker be my guide," the dwarf whispered. "I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond… For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light…"

Cassandra's breath hitched softly, her hand shaking as she raised the quill to the parchment. He wrapped steady fingers around her own to guide her through it, the pad of his thumb warm as it rested beside hers. It was slow to come, but at last, she had written the final stanza of Trials 1:14 on the parchment.

_And nothing He has wrought shall be lost._

Varric smiled sadly and closed his eyes, giving her a moment to breathe free.

"You got this, baby… If you only believe in one thing for now, just believe that."

**~oOo~**

If Varric was known for anything, it was his unrivalled displeasure for the outdoors.

Actually, scratch that. He'd received more notoriety from his novels and roguish good looks, but that was from his vocal, loyal fanbase. Among friends, he was pretty confident that his charm and chest hair came to mind first, his not-so-happy camper traits coming in around third place. He nearly corrected that assessment, too, but it wasn't worth the mental strain to hash that out now. The night was too dark and the air too fresh to linger on the details. The point was, to his absolute surprise, he hadn't minded the countryside at all, this time out.

They must have thought something was off, especially since he hadn't uttered a bad word about nature in nearly a month. Hell, he'd even mentioned how lovely the sun setting over the Oasis was just before turning in, last night. Not one of his friends had responded in kind, Chuckles going so far as to deduce that their dwarven companion had been secretly murdered and replaced by a demon with a penchant for mind games. The only retort he'd had ready was that if his body had been snatched, then he'd be the last to know about it. And he was confident that his statement was perplexing enough to either dismiss the theory or confound things further. Either way, they had shut up about it, which was the goal in the first place. Guess that could be considered a success.

It had been one of the longest days on record for him. He'd been on Team A again, along with Bull and Dorian, and they hadn't come back with more than spider ichor, fabric, and ore to show for it. Night had already fallen over the Forbidden Oasis, and the Inquisitor had been too exhausted to do more than drink her weight in water before collapsing in one of the tents. Sleep felt more like a distant call than an immediate need for them, though, so the three had taken over watch for the time being - or at least until they could scrounge up something to eat and shed the day's anxieties.

Cassandra had gone to cool down by the watering pool while Vivienne and Sera had bid them all goodnight, leaving them to their own devices. As luck would have it, the Seeker's voice had returned some time after they'd passed the Dales, but it carried a gruffer quality to it, now. Buttercup had teased her for sounding uncannily like Varric, and the comparison wasn't too far off, if one dismissed the whole Nevarran-ness of it. If anything, Cassandra's battle cries were a hell of a lot more intimidating, which the Seeker had used to their full advantage. Still, she'd been advised by their mage companions not to strain herself too much in that regard - not like they could stop her from bashing in the heads of the Venatori or sticking them full of swords, but they'd made an effort. It hadn't worked, but considering just who they had lectured, that hadn't been all that surprising, really.

As for now, he would wait to talk to her until he'd sorted out what he was going to tell her about his day. Barring that, he needed a distraction. They all did, and silently agreeing not to speak of the day's awkward events, talk of debts came up over rations instead, Tiny and Sparkler listening in beside him as he parced over the details in his notebook.

"I'm a pack mule," Bull laughed at the way Varric had framed the scene. "A beast of burden!  _Yeah,_ a  _beast!"_

"Okay, focus on that line if you want," he mumbled, his quill hovering over Tiny's name in anticipation. "Still, I owe you for hauling me to Suledin Keep after Blondie's attack. And for the Seeker, when you lugged her all the way back up to Skyhold. I may not pay people back right away, but at least I know what I owe, so…" The words trailed off as Tiny took a long swig from his canteen, Varric rejecting the proffered alcohol without comment.

"Ahh," the qunari exhaled after another greedy gulp. "So! How do you pay off a pack mule, anyway?"

"With oats. Lots of oats…" Tapping the feathered end against his recently-shaved chin, Varric arched a brow. "Fermented oats?"

"I'd take you up on that, but Krem and I are  _usually_ pretty good at finding our own. I'd settle for more cocoa, if you've got any more lying around."

"No problem, Tiny." It shouldn't be too hard to procure another shipment of powder, but that would take some time. Maybe there was something he could offer with more… instant gratification. A preview of sorts... "Hmm… The qunari was the only guy we could rely on to get rock hard every time a roar  _ripped_  across the sky. Gigantic muscles  _rippled_  with raw power as we approached the dragon's den, light  _rippling_ across his impeccably shined dawnstone axe."

Sparkler practically choked on a stick of jerky as Bull slammed both palms flat on his massive knees, growling deeply. "Oh,  _shit_ yeah!"

"And his horns could eviscerate a man in five seconds," he added, scribbling madly to get it all down.

" _Four,_ Varric. I like that. Keep the horn bit in."

"Ohhh," Dorian sighed from his seat on the rock, eyeing the fire as though he wanted to jump in and be consumed by the flames. "Pipe down, Bull. You'll draw out the spiders, at this rate."

Varric took stock of his own volume as he finished writing up the tab, turning to the mage. "So, Sparkler, I'm almost afraid to ask, but how many favours do I owe you, now?"

"A million,"he pursed his lips, fiddling with one of his many dazzling, snakelike rings. _"Ten_ million. A hundred  _billion._ Take a look at the sky, Varric. Count the stars.  _That_ , my sorry little friend, is how many favours you owe me." Looking up, the Tevinter's eyes glimmered as he drank in the surrounding beauty of the desert sky. "Isn't the sight just resplendent?"

The dwarf glanced upward for a while, allowing himself to feel small in the presence of the stars. Well. Smaller. "That puts a whole new spin on 'Sparkler,'" he mumbled almost to himself.

"By the Maker, that's  _perfect,"_  Dorian smiled brilliantly. "It suits me."

"Well, think about what you want in return for… everything." Closing his personal notebook, he stuffed it into his pack, coming across the book he'd packed just before leaving Skyhold.

Varric pulled it out and sat it on his knee, wondering if now was the right time to give it to the Seeker. For weeks, he'd waited for the right moment, but every time he was about to segue into that conversation, somebody would enter the tent, or join them by the fire, or catch up with them on the road and tell them something that supposedly couldn't wait. Now, he glanced over his shoulder to the pool below… and found, to his surprise, nothing but a pair of boots and a sleeping cat.

The Seeker was missing, and he'd heard nothing.

Coming back to himself a bit, he concluded, "Uh… We've got some time before this is over, but not a lot, Sparkler. Make it count. Pardon me."

He turned and left the fireside, aware of eyes on his back as he tried to play it cool and not alarm anyone. Knowing that he wasn't her keeper and that Cassandra was perfectly capable of looking after herself, the panic didn't swell to anything more than a minor nuisance nagging at his thoughts. She'd done remarkably well on the journey; surely there was nothing to worry about. So long as he was reassured of her whereabouts, that would be good enough.

It was a short walk down the embankment, the sand still retaining much of the desert heat within its grains. The path to the pool had been tread down on their last visit, but the winds had blown all traces of their presence away, leaving only the red canvas tents and gilded flagpoles the Inquisition was known for. The air cooled as he approached, the water almost appearing to glow from beneath, somehow.

Mouse turned her ears toward the sound of his coming bootsteps, but made no move beyond perhaps waving at him with her tail. She was sprawled on her side, paws spread lazily as she dozed on the warm sands beside the pair of warrior boots. He bent over and ran a hand down the cat's furry flank. "Hey, girl," he said to her, "have you seen the Seeker, by any chance?"

Water lapped against the rocky outcrop jutting out over the water. "I'm here," a hoarse voice revealed as a hand dripping with beads of mineral-enriched water waved to him.

Leaning out over the edge, Varric felt relief wash over him. She was seated in the shallow pool, water coming up to her collar… And she was completely clothed, dark leggings visible beneath the soft ripples she caused with her movement. The cotton shirt she wore was a masculine cut, draping loose over her bronze, muscular form.

"Not one for skinny dipping? Or are you just forcing me to use my imagination?"

"Believe it or not, I did not get in just to tantalise you, Varric," she replied, though her tone was laced with more lightness than her words implied. "I'm in here for three reasons, specifically."

He set the book down and laid on his stomach, propping his upper body on the ridge with both elbows.  _"Three?_ Well, you can't say that and not expect me to ask what those reasons are. 'Specifically,'" he smirked, crossing his forearms under him.

She rested her temple against the rockface and brought her knees up. "One," she began, "the water was inviting, and I must admit that I did not give myself time to consider undressing before I slid in. It hardly matters; the sunrise will dry them in a half hour at most. I'm glad I took the plunge, in the end. The water's properties are doing wonders for the healing blister and my persistent stomach ache."

"Good to hear." He grinned at her turn of phrase. "But 'took the plunge' sounds like a pun I'd make right before getting slapped."

"I'm not sorry I said it," she smiled softly, her eyes trained on the temple doors in the distance. "Two: I…" Cassandra blinked a handful of times before taking a breath to steady her nerves. "...I've noticed I have not… felt at ease around anything larger than a bath. I thought that perhaps sitting in here would help… would help put my aversions aside…"

A shiver ran up his spine at the sudden memory of the Fallow Mire's murky bog waters, but he resisted the primal urge to shake until goosebumps poured over his arms. "...I hope it's working for you," he muttered, wary of putting too much sympathy into his tone.

"It is easier, since you showed," the warrior admitted softly, not careful enough to prevent the tremble in her damaged voice. Clearing her throat, she added, "If there's need for you to jump in after me, I can use your body as a flotation device."

Varric snorted with marked derisiveness. "That's all it's good for in there, that's for sure," he smirked, reaching down just enough to flick a few shimmering drops toward her. It did nothing but bring a smile to her face as she leaned away, but the expression meant the world to him. "So, what's the third reason?"

Cassandra went quiet, pearls of white teeth biting down on a lower lip soft enough to fall upon and rest at ease. Then, unexpectedly, she took hold of the ledge on which he leant and maneuvred through the water, ripples cascading across the surface from her as she brought her chin near his clasped hands. He watched the Seeker take the ledge and pull herself toward him, warm breath flowing slowly down over his chest.

"To tantalise you," she whispered.

It was spoken with such allure that Varric neglected his next breath until the last possible moment. He arched a brow her way, eyes narrowing a fraction as he caught her humour.

She bit her lip again. Maker, he thought she might kill him with that look. "I said that I did not get in  _just_ to tantalise you… Not that it wasn't also a consideration while making my decision."

He smiled. Cassandra really was something else… She had a way of flirting with dominance while simultaneously revealing graceful streaks of vulnerability that drew him in without fail. She'd made a move he'd never quite mastered, let alone implemented without backpedalling mere seconds in. It was a risky venture to call a bluff and reveal a hand in the same breath, and the Seeker managed to do both without once fearing the outcome. For him, a risk like that was opening himself up to too much rejection… And he wondered why he still feared such a thing from her, given how she now pressed her cool forehead against his burning cheek, sliding against him until hot breath sighed across his earlobe and raised every hair on his body.

He closed his eyes, feeling with skin and soul as she dragged those same soft, sacrosanct lips over his jawbone, laying a tender kiss on the ancient scar marking a poorly-set break in his nose. Droplets of sweet water transferred at her touch like ghostly imprints haunting a place she'd once called home, disappearing faster than his heart was prepared to part with them. When she pulled back, the air became colder, the desert a little harsher, the night a shade darker, and he opened heavy lids, drunk on the blood soaring through his dwarven veins.

His warrior, his woman, his world… She was the living definition of a promise. He dared not blink, lest she fade from his sight forever.

But then he did. "...Is that my shirt?" he started, the corner of his mouth upturning as he thumbed the seam of her billowing sleeve.

Cassandra shrugged the shoulder he touched just enough to let the loose neck fall, the port wine stain left by the red lyrium black as oil under the moonlight. "It's Cullen's," she said, her nose brushing against his. "He let me keep it after I healed."

"It's working for you," he breathed, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. He kissed the cuts on her pronounced knuckles, making a note of every rehardened callus and thanking Andraste for each one. "But if I said I was jealous of Curly, would you take it off?"

He heard the smile on her voice. "No," she leaned close, her face dangerously close to every kiss he planted. "Deal with it, dwarf."

A laugh escaped with the next breath as he tightened his hold over her pruning fingers. "Can't blame a guy for trying, Seeker."

"I can blame whoever I want. Especially you."

Cocking his head to the side, he cupped the strong lines of her jaw in both hands. "Suppose you could. Wouldn't be the first time you condemned me without just cause."

He watched as a striking brow raised ever so slightly, reveling in the telltale inflection she let slip. "Hmm," Cassandra closed the distance between them, seemingly venomous lips brushing against his and paralysing him on the spot. "I am certain that it won't be the last, either..."

Whatever the polar opposite of numbness was, Varric felt that very sensation overwhelm him as he pulled her in. Her kiss was all but prayed into being, as close to a dream as he would ever come, her open mouth inviting and warm as he took from her his soul's utter and complete redemption. Nothing was more intense, more important, more intimate than she, the taste on his tongue now fast becoming a flavour of home that his heart would crave in a ceaseless ache of nostalgia should land and sea ever come between them. Fingers buried themselves in her growing locks of their own accord as a cold hand found his neck and tugged at the skin beneath his vest front.

Had it really been  _that long_  since the last kiss they'd shared? Skyhold felt like an age ago, all the mundane business of travel and the odd skirmish here and there standing in the way of anything beyond the smallest stolen glance. Even his luck had faded as they found themselves on opposite shifts in the night watch or, if both relieved of duty, retiring in separate tents when neither was capable of asking the sleeping occupants to switch, whether from cracking voices or nerves hardly mattering in the end. But yes - Andraste's ass,  _yes_  - it had been way too long, and even as her hand released him and her lips left his, he prayed the next kiss wouldn't be as far away.

The Seeker slipped back down into the water, a light in her eye left burning for him. The look spoke plenty, even if she hadn't: she'd ended it purposefully, teasing either him or herself, or possibly both. If he had half a mind, he'd have taken her bait and joined her in the watering pool, but this game was a fun one to play. They'd soon see who would bite first… And he wondered if he could reel her back in with a few choice words.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I like your eyes?" Varric kept his voice down, putting on an air of nonchalance as he blindly assigned his right hand to stroke the sleeping cat.

The Seeker turned her gaze from the night sky and back to him, perking up at the unexpected compliment. "Not that I remember," she confessed, her voice scratching out the words as if she had just carved them into wood. "...Tell me."

He kept the smile on the edge of his lips under control. "I just did," he teased.

A small scoff, the barest of a reward for his valiant effort. " _Elaborate,_ then."

The laugh huffed from his throat, barely heard over the chirping of unseen insects. "Alright, fine," Varric relented, scratching his jaw pensively. "I like the shape of them. They're pointed in the corners," he explained, a finger rising to his own crow's feet wrinkles needlessly, "like… leaves, or something." Damn it, his plan wasn't going to work with shit comparisons like that.

Cassandra's brows drew together under the moonlight. Without her usual smoky makeup, the expression was less pronounced from this distance. "My eyes are like leaves?" she repeated dubiously.

"Yeah," he stuck to the awful line like a boot sinking deeper into a deposit of silt. "Same colour, too, come to think of it."

"...My eyes are like brown, dead leaves."

It was hard to discern whether Varric was annoying or amusing her, but either way resulted in another tug at the corner of his mouth. "Hey, don't knock it, Seeker," he muttered as he ran a fingernail under Mouse's chin. "The kids in the alienage back in Kirkwall used to pile them up and dive in for the fun of it. Not me, though," he shook his head. "I'm not nature's biggest fan. You know. Too… crunchy."

"I couldn't be  _less_ surprised to hear that."

His eyes lifted to hers then and she caught the subtle movement, raising her own to meet them. They were dark, fathomless even, reflecting light from multiple sources, all shining back at him like he'd gazed up at the stars themselves.

"I wouldn't mind diving into your eyes for a while, though," he smiled her way.

A smirk blossomed on wide lips as her tone dripped with sardonic wit. "I imagine that would make quite the crunch, yes."

Shaking his head at her, he grimaced and crossed his arms again. "You just had to go and make it weird, didn't you?"

" _Me?"_ Cassandra vibrated with mirth in the water.  _"I_ made it weird?"

It might've been the way she had said it, or it might've been the point finally smashing its way to the forefront of his mind. Either way, it was as if all memory had returned and buried him in an avalanche of problems once again, and Varric shut his eyes against it. If he didn't mention it…

But no. He had to. It was the perfect segue.

"...Speaking of weird," the dwarf winced, lacing his fingers together nervously, "there's something we gotta talk about. It's, uh… Well, it's about the Inquisitor, primarily."

Talk of the Herald was like talk of business for Cassandra, and he witnessed her entire demeanour shift into another aspect entirely, the persona of the ardent lover giving precedence to the stalwart Seeker of Truth in less than a heartbeat. "Is something the matter?" she frowned, drawing closer only to ensure privacy, this time.

He shook his head, lips pressing to a fine line as he thought of how to convey what he'd seen that day. "I don't know for sure; it's just a gut feeling I'm getting. I thought you could help me make sense of it."

Nodding in understanding, she kept silent, bidding him to continue.

"So, you know we were gone all day, but you probably thought we were tying up loose ends. That's… not exactly how things turned out, in the end. Sure, we found some interesting landmarks and staked our claims, gathered what looked like weeds and took chunks from some ore deposits, but…" He rested his chin on a palm, focusing on small grains of sand as he stirred them with a finger. "Like I said, it got weird. Fast. Did you notice that we never once circled our way back to camp? Lavellan had Sparkler, Tiny and me all over the place - in quarries, mines, up, down - you name it and we were there."

"What were you looking for?" Cassandra wondered.

He felt like he was losing his mind, but he shook his head and explained, anyway. "That's the weird part:  _nothing_. Nod a damned thing. After she ignored a few of my fairly valid complaints, in my opinion, things got… awkward. Really awkward. And quiet. She kept taking us to the edge of the desert and back. We were going in circles, and the Inquisitor just kept turning to us like she was expecting something to happen. We'd just stare at her, and then she'd stomp off in a huff and start running all over again."

The Seeker didn't seem as perplexed as he had been in the moment. Frowning, she reclaimed her seat by the ledge and hugged a knee. "She has been trying to get Iron Bull and Dorian to speak about their relationship. It sounds as if she tried to instigate it by taking matters into her own hands."

"Yeah, well, you're right about that much. Tiny was the one to break first. Not that it was anyone's business but theirs, but we were out of water and things weren't looking so great." Despite himself, Varric managed a small chuckle. "I could see Sparkler side-eyeing me, almost like he thought I'd tell everyone what I'd overheard."

He caught the touch of a smile on her voice. "You're telling  _me_ , though."

"I know," he took that small truth in stride. "Sparkler's a smart guy. He's got me pegged, alright… But that's different. I'm telling you because you oughta know. Our little Herald is becoming… obsessed with all our various relationships with each other."

The mood slowly dropped, descending as jokes were put aside in light of more concerning circumstances. Varric could feel a lump solidify in the pit of his stomach, weighing him down and growing impossible to ignore.

"Perhaps she is not coping well with Solas pulling away and wishes to find hope elsewhere," Cassandra suggested quietly. The nervousness in her tone was enough to convince Varric that even she had a hard time aligning Lavellan's actions with those of a sane individual.

"Or maybe," he grimaced, looking off to the side, "she thinks that seeing everyone paired off will somehow make Chuckles change his tune."

She turned to face him as her jaw dropped, and it took a moment longer before Varric was able to meet her gaze. There was outrage in her eyes, and he felt guilty for putting it there. If he'd said nothing, though, it would have felt like a betrayal. That was how he saw the situation. He could have been wrong, but that was why he'd mentioned it to Cassandra to begin with.

"Why in the Maker's name would Lavellan believe that?" she shook her head in bafflement.

His smile was tinged with sympathy. "Maybe she doesn't. That's just the vibe I'm getting… You remember when Sparkler said that she'd convinced herself their break was just temporary? Maybe she thinks Chuckles would look at two unlikely people falling in love as a signal that he screwed up and should try to make it work again."

Cassandra stared at him, swallowing hard. "...Two unlikely people…"

The dwarf took in a slow breath, holding it for a while as he stared back. Letting it go silently, he admitted, "I might be reading too much into this, Seeker. I probably am, but…" He broke the stare, the lump migrating to his throat. Pushing it back down, he shifted and focused again on Mouse, who rose her head and tracked a mosquito with quick, predatory eyes. "If anything, the fact that she's prying into people's love lives and tiring them out in an attempt to force them to talk is kind of offputting, when you really think about it."

She shifted uncomfortably in the water, running hands over her arms to try relieving herself of goosebumps. "...Does Lavellan know that you and I are…?"

"No," he told her emphatically. "In fact, I asked the Kid if anyone had caught on that we were…" Strangely, he couldn't find the right word for what they were, either. On one hand, it was complicated and they hadn't ironed out any solid details, yet. On the other, it was one of the most straightforward relationships Varric had ever had. Sometimes, love was just like that: an unspoken truth not requiring official acknowledgment. And he definitely still loved Cassandra, even if he hadn't exactly said it.

"And what did Cole have to say?" she pulled him from his musings.

Varric smiled sadly, coming back into the fold. "Tiny knows. Can't hide anything from an ex-spy for the Qun, to be fair. Sparkler, of course - he caught me up in the Tower Room, if you remember, and inferred the obvious. And Hero knows, apparently, which kind of surprised me. He sees it in the way I look at you when I think no one's watching me… But he knows not to talk about it, and I trust him."

The Seeker blushed at that, hoping to disguise it by playing it casual. "Anyone else?"

"Yeah," he replied. "Nightingale. He said she has a hard time accepting it. Something about the clothes being too tight and not fitting? I didn't really get where he was going with the metaphor, but the Kid said everyone else assumes it's pretty much over between us."

A pause. A brief second or two of nothing but the sound of nocturnal insects and the breeze whistling and moaning through the natural wonders of the landscape… and then she moved. Water trickled, shadows played, her form wafting toward him again. He had drawn her in despite forgetting the goal of luring her entirely, and there she was before him, the eyes he so admired piercing him with a gaze strong enough to hold him in place.

"Is it over?" she whispered, hope and sadness turning her brows.

He laid a hand on her neck, resting his forehead against hers for a while. She was cool to the touch, but all he could think was how wonderful it was that she still let him touch her at all. "I hope it's not, Seeker," he let out the soft confession. "Even after everything I said and the dumb things I did, it's never been over for me." He swallowed hard against a pain in his throat as she kneaded his shoulder gently. "Thing is," he struggled to get it out, "I know you don't really want things to go back to being all tight-lipped and secretive, but I'm not sure the opposite is best for everyone, either… You want big gestures and huge, heartfelt declarations, and I'm so busted up and paranoid that I can't even bring myself to admit that I still -…"

And there was the rub. He'd gone and proved his own point when the words "I love you" choked off before they even had the chance to break free. Varric was hopeless, a lost cause, still convinced the phrase carried a bonafide curse that could destroy everything he cherished by admitting it aloud. Maker, it frustrated him that he was like this, but at the same time, recent events had not exactly proved him wrong, either… Cassandra deserved better than to put up with his shit…

"...A compromise, then."

Looking up, he caught the softness of her expression and felt a wave of relaxation hit him.  _Compromise_. Now that wasn't something he had expected her to say. Curious, Varric gave a single, slow nod, waiting to hear whatever offer she put on the proverbial table.

Cassandra ran her fingers over his hair, tucking stray locks behind his ear. With a small smile, she tugged slightly on an earring before crossing her arms on the ridge and resting her chin on top. "We continue down this road," she said, careful to keep her gruff voice low. "We don't openly state anything incriminating, but we won't deny if asked, either."

His lips pressed to a fine line at that, an earlier mistake he had made coming sharply to mind.

As he nodded in agreement, she continued, "You don't have to state your feelings. I will know.  _We_ will know the truth…" And here, she bit her lip in a sad smile, placing her hand over his and giving him a gentle squeeze. "Our business is our own. Not a secret, nothing to be ashamed of, but ours… No one else's."

For a time, Varric was speechless. This idea of the Seeker's wasn't so much a compromise as an all-out surrender. After what they had been through, and at their age, it shouldn't have to be this way. They deserved - no,  _she_ deserved more. For her to even suggest this, he should be offering something in return… "Are you sure about this?" he leaned in, checking over his shoulder for intruders, eavesdroppers, or interruptions of any kind. The coast was clear, but he still felt that same paranoia snaking up his back and drawing out chills.

"I am," she reassured him with a close-lipped smile. "Whether your theory about Lavellan is correct or not is a matter best left for another day. I don't wish to be responsible for instilling false hope over Solas." Her eyes darkened at that, but she managed to push it aside, for now. "After the war, when the dust has settled and… and they are reunited, then we may begin being more open about what we have together."

His blood ran cold. That statement sounded too uncomfortably close to one of those tired old two-days-till-retirement scenarios, another setup for some ironic tragedy in the works he would see coming a mile away in a fiction full of overused tropes. One last battle and they could be together at last? It was tempting fate at the very least, and downright doomed at worst…

But he breathed nothing of it to her. Because acknowledging it out loud was as good as breaking a mirror and walking under a ladder while cheerfully exclaiming,  _What's the worst that could happen?_ No, better to just cross his fingers and hope she didn't try to play the part of sacrificial saviour when they finally faced Corypheus, once and for all...

"...Alright, Seeker," he agreed, squeezing her hand back and praying she couldn't feel him tremble. "After the war… Then I'm all yours, if you can handle it." He attempted a light smile in lieu of a cocky smirk, not sure he could pull off the expression without her noticing something wrong.

Cassandra sensed his unease, though. He could feel it in the way she rubbed the back of his hand, patting it gently as she let him go. "I'm sure Solas will come around, once this is all over," she said casually, obviously more confident in the prospect than he was.

"Yeah… Yeah, I'm sure everything'll be fine," Varric tried convincing himself, sitting up slightly with a weary sigh. "But you're right. Let's lay low, take it slow for now… This isn't my first Proving, after all."

She laughed at the odd turn of phrase, and oh Maker, that sound had quite the effect on him. He'd  _missed_ her deep thrums of laughter that seemed to radiate from her chest outward, as if her very heart was pleased with him. A rewarding heat spread over his face, and soon, he was chuckling right along with her.

It felt so damned good to  _feel good_ again. Almost as if nothing could go wrong, ever again.

And now was the perfect time to ask what had been on his mind for weeks… After all, it would be the perfect trade-off. She'd given him this much to hope for, and it would go a long way to prove just how much she meant to him…

His heart pounding, he stole a shaking breath, taking her hand in his. This was his moment.

"...Cassandra -"

"What's this?"

Varric blinked, brows drawing together as she reached to his left and held the book up for inspection.

Recovering only slightly, he stared blankly at the illustrated cover and croaked, "Oh, that. That's… Well, uh, I've been waiting for the right time to…" Taking the book from her eager grasp, he set it down between them and turned it over the sands to face her. "Uhm… Yeah, so," he started, clearing his throat and forcing his pulse to lower again, "I wasn't very successful up at the Black Emporium, Seeker. The guys were better at finding what you needed for the whole 'cure' thing, but I saw this old book and dusted it off, and I just… thought you'd not exactly need it for your body, but maybe your soul could do with some healing." A blush spread over his cheeks and down his shirtfront, and Varric was at once grateful for the darkness surrounding them.

Taken aback, Cassandra opened the cover, the aged leather crackling satisfyingly, and her eyes widened as she used the moonlight to make out the title on the cover page. "A book of Thedosian poetry!" Turning to the table of contents, she covered her mouth with a finger or two, stifling a gasp. "This even includes poems from Tevinter…  _Carmenum di Amatus?_ I thought that one was banned," she exclaimed to herself, flipping through the brittle pages as fast as she could.

"Careful, Seeker," he smiled with adoration, helping her out. "This thing's older than both of us put together."

Finding the correct passage, Cassandra eagerly leaned over the book, only backing away when she realised her only lightsource was blocked. "I can't believe this," she grinned with sparkling eyes. "I hadn't expected you to -"

"Shh, you'll wake the baby," he nearly laughed, cocking his head toward Mouse, still dozing lazily beside him. "Let's read a little before bed."

It must have been something he said, for she stared at him with a look he didn't quite recognise. Interested, he watched the words play out over the subtle lines of her face, wondering all the while why she smiled at him with such sweetness.

"...Come," she whispered, leaning up to peer over her shoulder at the campfire in the distance. Tiny and Sparkler's silhouettes were sandwiched together, their attention more on one another than on Varric and Cassandra. "Sit beside me in the water. I've always loved reading in the bath."

He shook his head in confusion. "You know I can't actually swim, right?"

Cassandra pulled gently at the cuff of his red coat. "You'll only be sitting against the rocks," she whispered. "Don't worry, it's not deep at all. Even for you."

He eyed the water suspiciously. "... _Eh…_ " he hesitated, mulling the idea over.

"I'll be by your side. I promise. I won't even dunk your head under the surface, as tempted as I am," she laughed through her words.

His eyes shifting to the Seeker, he pressed his lips to a fine line and groaned as he sat up, removing only his coat and boots and setting them beside her own. Brushing the sand off his trousers, Varric shrugged off his vest and tossed it aside with a flourish, smirking all the while. "Should I keep going?" he teased.

Cassandra shook her head and rolled her eyes at him.  _"Ugh._ Just get in before I change my mind."

And so, he settled into the watering hole, bracing himself against the chill until she nestled in beside him, long legs draped over his lap and the book comfortably between them.

"Thank you, Varric," she whispered, kissing his cheek with such tenderness. "This was thoughtful of you."

The Seeker rested her temple against his shoulder and closed her eyes, listening to the low thrums of his soothing voice as he read  _Carmenum di Amatus_ aloud to her, alone together in the heart of the oasis. 

> _On aching branch do blossoms grow, the wind a hallowed breath._   
>  _It carries the scent of honeysuckle, sweet as the lover's kiss._   
>  _It brings the promise of more tomorrows, of sighs and whispered bliss._
> 
> _His lips on mine speak words not voiced, a prayer_   
>  _Which travels down my spine like flames that shatter night._   
>  _His eyes reflect the heaven's stars, the Maker's light._
> 
> _My body opens, filled and blessed, my spirit there._   
>  _Not merely housed in flesh, but brought to life._

And as the light slowly faded around them and gave way to darkest night, Varric forgot entirely the question that had been on the tip of his tongue.


End file.
